BERKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


THE     ATLANTIC     MONTHLY    LIBRARY 
OF   TRAVEL 

I 
OUR   OLD    HOME 

BY 
NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE 


THE   ATLANTIC   MONTHLY 
LIBRARY  OF  TRAVEL 


VOLUME    ONE 


OUR  OLD  HOME 


BY 


NATHANIEL  ^HAWTHORNE 

ANNOTATED 

WITH  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 
AUTHOR'S  NOTE-BOOKS 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

IIOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   &   COMPANY 

THE   RIVERSIDE    PRESS 

CAMBRIDGE 


1907 


Copyright,  1863, 
BY   NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 

Copyright,  1870, 
BY   SOPHIA    HAWTHORNE. 

Copyright,  1883,  1890, 
BY    HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN   £   CO. 

Copyright,  1891, 
BY   ROSE   HAWTHORNE   LATHROP. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S,  A 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


Add  to  Sift? 


GHF1 


P5 


PUBLISHERS'   ADVERTISEMENT. 


IT  is  well  known  to  students  of  Haw 
thorne  that  the  great  romancer  was  a  dili 
gent  recorder  of  the  observations  which 
lay  at  the  foundation  of  his  fiction  and 
his  sketches ;  that  he  accumulated  many 
volumes  of  manuscript  notes,  and  had  re 
course  to  this  material  when  engaged  upon 
the  books  which  his  observation,  under  an 
informing  imagination,  suggested.  The 
connection  between  the  first  notes  and 
the  final  form  was  closest,  naturally,  in 
the  case  of  Our  Old  Home,  which  was  very 
largely  composed  by  Hawthorne  of  tran 
scripts  from  his  note-books,  so  that  when 
his  widow  printed  the  English  Note-Books, 
she  found  herself  compelled  to  omit  many 
pages  because  they  had  already  been  used 
by  the  author  when  writing  the  sketches 
which  composed  Our  Old  Home. 


539 


IV         PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

At  the  same  time  it  is  clear  that  Haw 
thorne  when  giving  the  final  form  to  his 
impressions  of  England  did  not  make  a 
mere  cento  from  his  note-books,  nor  fru 
gally  use  every  scrap  bearing  upon  the 
subject  in  hand.  Consequently  the  stu 
dent  of  the  English  Note-Books  often  is 
haunted  by  a  feeling  that  he  has  read 
something  to  the  same  effect  in  Our  Old 
Home,  and  finds  it  an  agreeable  task  to 
trace  the  connection  between  the  impres 
sions  set  down  at  the  moment  and  the 
more  deliberate  writing  intended  for  the 
public  eye. 

The  publishers  have  taken  the  opportu 
nity  of  a  new  edition  of  Ottr  Old  Home  to 
make  this  comparison  practicable  to  all 
readers,  by  annotating  the  text  from  the 
note-books.  Thus  Hawthorne  is  made  his 
own  commentator,  often  with  felicitous 
effect,  as,  for  example,  on  pages  151,  152, 
where  the  latter  half  of  the  foot-note 
clearly  contains  the  first  form  of  the  pas 
sage  expanded  into  the  fuller  and  richer 
expression  in  the  text.  The  references 


PUBLISHERS'-   ADVERTISEMENT         V 

are  by  volume  and  page,  to  the  Riverside 
Edition  of  Passages  from  the  English  Note- 
Books. 

The  photogravures,  in  almost  all  cases, 
are  from  photographs  from  the  objects 
themselves,  and  regard  has  been  had, 
whenever  it  was  expedient,  to  the  date  of 
Hawthorne's  own  knowledge  of  England, 
so  that  the  pictures  might  be  true  copies 
of  the  scenes  which  he  described  with 
marvelous  fidelity.  For  the  portrait  of 
Miss  Delia  Bacon,  who  was  so  prominent 
a  figure  in  Hawthorne's  world  at  the  time, 
the  publishers  are  indebted  to  the  courtesy 
of  Mr.  Theodore  Bacon,  author  of  The 
Life  of  Delia  Bacon,  where  it  first  ap 
peared. 

BOSTON,  August,  1890. 

The  present  new  edition  of  Our  Old 
Home  brings  the  two  volumes  of  the  1890 
edition  into  a  single  convenient  volume. 
Otherwise,  contents  and  illustrations  re 
main  the  same. 

BOSTON,  August,  1901. 


TO 
FRANKLIN  PIERCE, 

AS  A  SLIGHT  MEMORIAL  OF  A  COLLEGE  FRIEND 
SHIP,  PROLONGED  THROUGH   MANHOOD, 
AND  RETAINING  ALL  ITS  VITALITY 
IN  OUR  AUTUMNAL  YEARS, 

(2Dfris  Volume 

IS   INSCRIBED   BY 
NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


TO   A    FRIEND 

I  HAVE  not  asked  your  consent,  my  dear 
General,  to  the  foregoing  inscription,  be 
cause  it  would  have  been  no  inconsiderable 
disappointment  to  me  had  you  withheld  it  ; 
for  I  have  long  desired  to  connect  your 
name  with  some  book  of  mine,  in  commem 
oration  of  an  early  friendship  that  has 
grown  old  between  two  individuals  of  widely 
dissimilar  pursuits  and  fortunes.  I  only 
wish  that  the  offering  were  a  worthier  one 
than  this  volume  of  sketches,  which  cer 
tainly  are  not  of  a  kind  likely  to  prove  in 
teresting  to  a  statesman  in  retirement,  in 
asmuch  as  they  meddle  with  no  matters  of 
policy  or  government,  and  have  very  little 
to  say  about  the  deeper  traits  of  national 
character.  In  their  humble  way,  they  be 
long  entirely  to  aesthetic  literature,  and  can 
achieve  no  higher  success  than  to  represent 
to  the  American  reader  a  few  of  the  exter 
nal  aspects  of  English  scenery  and  life,  es 
pecially  those  that  are  touched  with  the 
antique  charm  to  which  our  countrymen 


X  TO   A  FRIEND 

are  more  susceptible  than  are  the   people 
among  whom  it  is  of  native  growth. 

I  once  hoped,  indeed,  that  so  slight  a 
volume  would  not  be  all  that  I  might  write. 
These  and  other  sketches,  with  which,  in  a 
somewhat  rougher  form  than  I  have  given 
them  here,  my  journal  was  copiously  filled, 
were  intended  for  the  side-scenes  and  back 
grounds  and  exterior  adornment  of  a  work 
of  fiction  of  which  the  plan  had  imperfectly 
developed  itself  in  my  mind,  and  into  which 
I  ambitiously  proposed  to  convey  more  of 
various  modes  of  truth  than  I  could  have 
grasped  by  a  direct  effort.  Of  course,  I 
should  not  mention  this  abortive  project, 
only  that  it  has  been  utterly  thrown  aside 
and  will  never  now  be  accomplished.  The 
Present,  the  Immediate,  the  Actual,  has 
proved  too  potent  for  me.  It  takes  away 
not  only  my  scanty  faculty,  but  even  my 
desire  for  imaginative  composition,  and 
leaves  me  sadly  content  to  scatter  a  thou 
sand  peaceful  fantasies  upon  the  hurricane 
that  is  sweeping  us  all  along  with  it,  possi 
bly,  into  a  Limbo  where  our  nation  and  its 
polity  may  be  as  literally  the  fragments  of 
a  shattered  dream  as  my  unwritten  Ro 
mance.  But  I  have  far  better  hopes  for 
our  dear  country  ;  and  for  my  individual 


TO   A   FRIEND  XI 

share  of  the  catastrophe,  I  afflict  myself 
little,  or  not  at  all,  and  shall  easily  find 
room  for  the  abortive  work  on  a  certain 
ideal  shelf,  where  are  reposited  many  other 
shadowy  volumes  of  mine,  more  in  number, 
and  very  much  superior  in  quality,  to  those 
which  I  have  succeeded  in  rendering  ac 
tual. 

To  return  to  these  poor  Sketches  :  some 
of  my  friends  have  told  me  that  they  evince 
an  asperity  of  sentiment  towards  the  Eng 
lish  people  which  I  ought  not  to  feel,  and 
which  it  is  highly  inexpedient  to  express. 
The  charge  surprises  me,  because,  if  it  be 
true,  I  have  written  from  a  shallower  mood 
than  I  supposed.  I  seldom  came  into  per 
sonal  relations  with  an  Englishman  without 
beginning  to  like  him,  and  feeling  my  favor 
able  impression  wax  stronger  with  the  pro 
gress  of  the  acquaintance.  I  never  stood 
in  an  English  crowd  without  being  con 
scious  of  hereditary  sympathies.  Never 
theless,  it  is  undeniable  that  an  American 
is  continually  thrown  upon  his  national  an 
tagonism  by  some  acrid  quality  in  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  England.  These  people 
think  so  loftily  of  themselves,  and  so  con 
temptuously  of  everybody  else,  that  it  re 
quires  more  generosity  than  I  possess  to 


Xll  TO   A    FRIEND 

keep  always  in  perfectly  good  humor  with 
them.  Jotting  down  the  little  acrimonies 
of  the  moment  in  my  journal,  and  transfer 
ring  them  thence  (when  they  happened  to 
be  tolerably  well  expressed)  to  these  pages, 
it  is  very  possible  that  I  may  have  said 
things  which  a  profound  observer  of  na 
tional  character  would  hesitate  to  sanction, 
though  never  any,  I  verily  believe,  that  had 
not  more  or  less  of  truth.  If  they  be  true, 
there  is  no  reason  in  the  world  why  they 
should  not  be  said.  Not  an  Englishman  of 
them  all  ever  spared  America  for  courtesy's 
sake  or  kindness  ;  nor,  in  my  opinion,  would 
it  contribute  in  the  least  to  our  mutual  ad 
vantage  and  comfort  if  we  were  to  besmear 
one  another  all  over  with  butter  and  honey. 
At  any  rate,  we  must  not  judge  of  an  Eng 
lishman's  susceptibilities  by  our  own,  which 
likewise,  I  trust,  are  of  a  far  less  sensitive 
texture  than  formerly. 

And  now  farewell,  my  dear  friend  ;  and 
excuse  (if  you  think  it  needs  any  excuse) 
the  freedom  with  which  I  thus  publicly  as 
sert  a  personal  friendship  between  a  private 
individual  and  a  statesman  who  has  filled 
what  was  then  the  most  august  position  in 
the  world.  But  I  dedicate  my  book  to  the 
Friend,  and  shall  defer  a  colloquy  with  the 


TO  A   FRIEND  Xlll 

Statesman  till  some  calmer  and  sunnier 
hour.  Only  this  let  me  say,  that,  with  the 
record  of  your  life  in  my  memory,  and  with 
a  sense  of  your  character  in  my  deeper  con 
sciousness  as  among  the  few  things  that 
time  has  left  as  it  found  them,  I  need  no 
assurance  that  you  continue  faithful  forever 
to  that  grand  idea  of  an  irrevocable  Union, 
which,  as  you  once  told  me,  was  the  earliest 
that  your  brave  father  taught  you.  For 
other  men  there  may  be  a  choice  of  paths, 
—  for  you,  but  one ;  and  it  rests  among  my 
certainties  that  no  man's  loyalty  is  more 
steadfast,  no  man's  hopes  or  apprehensions 
on  behalf  of  our  national  existence  more 
deeply  heartfelt,  or  more  closely  intertwined 
with  his  possibilities  of  personal  happiness, 
than  those  of  FRANKLIN  PIERCE. 

THE  WAYSIDE,  July  2,  1863. 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

I.  CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  i 

II.  LEAMINGTON  SPA 60 

III.  ABOUT  WARWICK 103 

IV.  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  GIFTED  WOMAN  145 

V.  LlCHFIELD    AND    UTTOXETER       .  .  .199 

VI.  PILGRIMAGE  TO  OLD  BOSTON        .        .  231 

VII.  NEAR  OXFORD 281 

VIII.  SOME  OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS        *  325 

IX.  A  LONDON  SUBURB 359 

X.  UP  THE  THAMES 411 

XI.  OUTSIDE  GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY  470 

XII.  Civic  BANQUETS 527 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.        .          Frontispiece 

A  STREET  IN  LEAMINGTON 62 

WARWICK  CASTLE  AND  THE  COUNTRY  AROUND  78 

A  DEVONSHIRE  FARMHOUSE     ....  100 
ARCHED   BRIDGE   OVER   THE   AVON,   SHOWING 

WARWICK  CASTLE 106 

LEICESTER  HOSPITAL,  AND  WEST  GATE,  WAR 
WICK        1 20 

A  COUNTRY  LANE 150 

THE  ROOM  IN  WHICH  SHAKESPEARE  WAS  BORN  160 

DELIA  BACON 174 

CHARLECOTE  HALL 194 

LICHFIELD  CATHEDRAL  FROM  THE  WEST      .  206 
STATUE  OF  DR.  JOHNSON,  ST.  MARY'S  SQUARE, 

LICHFIELD 218 

LINCOLN  CATHEDRAL 240 

SALISBURY  CATHEDRAL  AND  BISHOP'S  PALACE  242 

ROMAN  ARCH,  LINCOLN 250 

ST.  BOTOLPH'S  TOWER,  OLD  BOSTON       .        .  260 

BLENHEIM "       .        .        .292 

THE  THAMES  AT  OXFORD  FROM  FOLLY  BRIDGE  318 
MAGDALEN  COLLEGE,  OXFORD,  FROM  THE  CHER- 
WELL  122 


XVI  LIST  OF  ILL  USTRA  TIONS 

ROBERT  BURNS      334 

BURNS'S  BIRTHPLACE,  ALLOWAY  PARISH,  NEAR 

AYR 350 

THE  AULD  BRIG  o'  DOON,  AYR  ....  354 

ALLOWAY  KIRK 356 

A  COUNTRY  HOUSE 364 

THE  HOUSES  OF  PARLIAMENT  ....  374 

LORD  NELSON 392 

LONDON  BRIDGE 412 

TOWER  OF  LONDON,  SHOWING  TRAITORS'  GATE  428 

ST.  PAUL'S  CATHEDRAL 430 

POETS'  CORNER,  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY       .        .  452 

AN  ENGLISH  ALMSHOUSE         ....  500 


OUR   OLD    HOME 


I. 

CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES 

THE  Consulate  of  the  United  States,  in 
my  day,  was  located  in  Washington  Build 
ings  (a  shabby  and  smoke  -  stained  edifice 
of  four  stories  high,  thus  illustriously 
named  in  honor  of  our  national  establish 
ment),  at  the  lower  corner  of  Brunswick 
Street,  contiguous  to  the  Goree  Arcade, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  some  of  the 
oldest  docks.  This  was  by  no  means  a 
polite  or  elegant  portion  of  England's  great 
commercial  city,  nor  were  the  apartments 
of  the  American  official  so  splendid  as  to 
indicate  the  assumption  of  much  consular 
pomp  on  his  part.  A  narrow  and  ill-light 
ed  staircase  gave  access  to  an  equally 
narrow  and  ill-lighted  passageway  on  the 
first  floor,  at  the  extremity  of  which,  sur 
mounting  a  door-frame,  appeared  an  ex 
ceedingly  stiff  pictorial  representation  of 


2  OUR   OLD  HOME 

the  Goose  and  Gridiron,  according  to  the 
English  idea  of  those  ever-to-be-honored 
symbols.  The  staircase  and  passageway 
were  often  thronged,  of  a  morning,  with  a 
set  of  beggarly  and  piratical-looking  scoun 
drels  (I  do  no  wrong  to  our  own  country 
men  in  styling  them  so,  for  not  one  in 
twenty  was  a  genuine  American),  purport 
ing  to  belong  to  our  mercantile  marine, 
and  chiefly  composed  of  Liverpool  Black- 
bailers  and  the  scum  of  every  maritime 
nation  on  earth  ;  such  being  the  seamen  by 
whose  assistance  we  then  disputed  the 
navigation  of  the  world  with  England. 
These  specimens  of  a  most  unfortunate 
class  of  people  were  shipwrecked  crews  in 
quest  of  bed,  board,  and  clothing ;  invalids 
asking  permits  for  the  hospital ;  bruised 
and  bloody  wretches  complaining  of  ill- 
treatment  by  their  officers ;  drunkards, 
desperadoes,  vagabonds,  and  cheats,  per- 
plexingly  intermingled  with  an  uncertain 
proportion  of  reasonably  honest  men.  All 
of  them  (save  here  and  there  a  poor  devil 
of  a  kidnapped  landsman  in  his  shore-going 
rags)  wore  red  flannel  shirts,  in  which  they 
had  sweltered  or  shivered  throughout  the 
voyage,  and  all  required  consular  assistance 
in  one  form  or  another. 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  3 

Any  respectable  visitor,  if  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  to  elbow  a  passage  among 
these  sea-monsters,  was  admitted  into  an 
outer  office,  where  he  found  more  of  the 
same  species,  explaining  their  respective 
wants  or  grievances  to  the  Vice-Consul 
and  clerks,  while  their  shipmates  await 
ed  their  turn  outside  the  door.  Passing 
through  this  exterior  court,  the  stranger 
was  ushered  into  an  inner  privacy,  where 
sat  the  Consul  himself,  ready  to  give  per 
sonal  attention  to  such  peculiarly  difficult 
and  more  important  cases  as  might  de 
mand  the  exercise  of  (what  we  will  cour 
teously  suppose  to  be)  his  own  higher  ju 
dicial  or  administrative  sagacity. 

It  was  an  apartment  of  very  moderate 
size,  painted  in  imitation  of  oak,  and  dusk 
ily  lighted  by  two  windows  looking  across 
a  by-street  at  the  rough  brick  side  of  an 
immense  cotton  warehouse,  a  plainer  and 
uglier  structure  than  ever  was  built  in 
America.  On  the  walls  of  the  room  hung 
a  large  map  of  the  United  States  (as  they 
were  twenty  years  ago,  but  seem  little 
likely  to  be,  twenty  years  hence),  and  a 
similar  one  of  Great  Britain,  with  its  ter 
ritory  so  provokingly  compact,  that  we 
may  expect  it  to  sink  sooner  than  sunder. 


4  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Farther  adornments  were  some  rude  en 
gravings  of  our  naval  victories  in  the  War 
of  1812,  together  with  the  Tennessee  State 
House,  and  a  Hudson  River  steamer,  and 
a  colored,  life-size  lithograph  of  General 
Taylor,  with  an  honest  hideousness  of  as 
pect,  occupying  the  place  of  honor  above 
the  mantel-piece.  On  the  top  of  a  book 
case  stood  a  fierce  and  terrible  bust  of 
General  Jackson,  pilloried  in  a  military 
collar  which  rose  above  his  ears,  and  frown 
ing  forth  immitigably  at  any  Englishman 
who  might  happen  to  cross  the  threshold. 
I  am  afraid,  however,  that  the  truculence 
of  the  old  general's  expression  was  utterly 
thrown  away  on  this  stolid  and  obdurate 
race  of  men  ;  for,  when  they  occasionally 
inquired  whom  this  work  of  art  represent 
ed,  I  was  mortified  to  find  that  the  younger 
ones  had  never  heard  of  the  battle  of  New 
Orleans,  and  that  their  elders  had  either 
forgotten  it  altogether,  or  contrived  to  mis- 
remember,  and  twist  it  wrong  end  foremost 
into  something  like  an  English  victory. 
They  have  caught  from  the  old  Romans 
(whom  they  resemble  in  so  many  other 
characteristics)  this  excellent  method  of 
keeping  the  national  glory  intact  by  sweep 
ing  all  defeats  and  humiliations  clean  out 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  5 

of  their  memory.  Nevertheless,  my  pat 
riotism  forbade  me  to  take  down  either 
the  bust  or  the  pictures,  both  because  it 
seemed  no  more  than  right  that  an  Ameri 
can  Consulate  (being  a  little  patch  of  our 
nationality  imbedded  into  the  soil  and  in 
stitutions  of  England)  should  fairly  repre 
sent  the  American  taste  in  the  fine  arts, 
and  because  these  decorations  reminded  me 
so  delightfully  of  an  old-fashioned  Ameri 
can  barber's  shop. 

One  truly  English  object  was  a  barome 
ter  hanging  on  the  wall,  generally  indicat 
ing  one  or  another  degree  of  disagreeable 
weather,  and  so  seldom  pointing  to  Fair, 
that  I  began  to  consider  that  portion  of  its 
circle  as  made  superfluously.  The  deep 
chimney,  with  its  grate  of  bituminous  coal, 
was  English  too,  as  was  also  the  chill  tem 
perature  that  sometimes  called  for  a  fire  at 
midsummer,  and  the  foggy  or  smoky  atmos 
phere  which  often,  between  November 
and  March,  compelled  me  to  set  the  gas 
aflame  at  noonday.  I  am  not  aware  of 
omitting  anything  important  in  the  above 
descriptive  inventory,  unless  it  be  some 
book-shelves  filled  with  octavo  volumes  of 
the  American  Statutes,  and  a  good  many 
pigeon-holes  stuffed  with  dusty  communi- 


6  OUR   OLD  HOME 

cations  from  former  Secretaries  of  State, 
and  other  official  documents  of  similar 
value,  constituting  part  of  the  archives  of 
the  Consulate,  which  I  might  have  done 
my  successor  a  favor  by  flinging  into  the 
coal  grate.  Yes  ;  there  was  one  other  arti 
cle  demanding  prominent  notice :  the  con 
sular  copy  of  the  New  Testament,  bound 
in  black  morocco,  and  greasy,  I  fear,  with 
a  daily  succession  of  perjured  kisses ;  at 
least,  I  can  hardly  hope  that  all  the  ten 
thousand  oaths,  administered  by  me  be 
tween  two  breaths,  to  all  sorts  of  people 
and  on  all  manner  of  worldly  business, 
were  reckoned  by  the  swearer  as  if  taken 
at  his  soul's  peril. 

Such,  in  short,  was  the  dusky  and  stifled 
chamber  in  which  I  spent  wearily  a  con 
siderable  portion  of  more  than  four  good 
years  of  my  existence.  At  first,  to  be  quite 
frank  with  the  reader,  I  looked  upon  it  as 
not  altogether  fit  to  be  tenanted  by  the 
commercial  representative  of  so  great  and 
prosperous  a  country  as  the  United  States 
then  were ;  and  I  should  speedily  have 
transferred  my  headquarters  to  airier  and 
loftier  apartments,  except  for  the  prudent 
consideration  that  my  government  would 
have  left  me  thus  to  support  its  dignity  at 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  7 

my  own  personal  expense.  Besides,  a  long 
line  of  distinguished  predecessors,  of  whom 
the  latest  is  now  a  gallant  general  under 
the  Union  banner,  had  found  the  locality 
good  enough  for  them  ;  it  might  certainly 
be  tolerated,  therefore,  by  an  individual  so 
little  ambitious  of  external  magnificence  as 
myself.  So  I  settled  quietly  down,  striking 
some  of  my  roots  into  such  soil  as  I  could 
find,  adapting  myself  to  circumstances,  and 
with  so  much  success,  that,  though  from 
first  to  last  I  hated  the  very  sight  of  the 
little  room,  I  should  yet  have  felt  a  singu 
lar  kind  of  reluctance  in  changing  it  for  a 
better. 

Hither,  in  the  course  of  my  incumbency, 
came  a  great  variety  of  visitors,  principally 
Americans,  but  including  almost  every 
other  nationality  on  earth,  especially  the 
distressed  and  downfallen  ones,  like  those 
of  Poland  and  Hungary.  Italian  bandits 
(for  so  they  looked),  proscribed  conspirators 
from  Old  Spain,  Spanish-Americans,  Cu 
bans  who  professed  to  have  stood  by  Lopez, 
and  narrowly  escaped  his  fate,  scarred 
French  soldiers  of  the  Second  Republic,  — 
in  a  word,  all  sufferers,  or  pretended  ones, 
in  the  cause  of  Liberty,  all  people  homeless 
in  the  widest  sense,  those  who  never  had  a 


8  OUR   OLD   HOME 

country,  or  had  lost  it,  those  whom  their 
native  land  had  impatiently  flung  off  for 
planning  a  better  system  of  things  than 
they  were  born  to,  —  a  multitude  of  these, 
and,  doubtless,  an  equal  number  of  jail 
birds,  outwardly  of  the  same  feather,  sought 
the  American  Consulate,  in  hopes  of  at 
least  a  bit  of  bread,  and,  perhaps,  to  beg  a 
passage  to  the  blessed  shores  of  Freedom. 
In  most  cases  there  was  nothing,  and  in 
any  case  distressingly  little,  to  be  done  for 
them ;  neither  was  I  of  a  proselyting  dis 
position,  nor  desired  to  make  my  Consulate 
a  nucleus  for  the  vagrant  discontents  of 
other  lands.  And  yet  it  was  a  proud 
thought,  a  forcible  appeal  to  the  sympathies 
of  an  American,  that  these  unfortunates 
claimed  the  privileges  of  citizenship  in  our 
Republic  on  the  strength  of  the  very  same 
noble  misdemeanors  that  had  rendered 
them  outlaws  to  their  native  despotisms. 
So  I  gave  them  what  small  help  I  could. 
Methinks  the  true  patriots  and  martyr- 
spirits  of  the  whole  world  should  have  been 
conscious  of  a  pang  near  the  heart,  when  a 
deadly  blow  was  aimed  at  the  vitality  of  a 
country  which  they  have  felt  to  be  their 
own  in  the  last  resort. 

As  for  my  countrymen,  I  grew  better 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  9 

acquainted  with  many  of  our  national  char 
acteristics  during  those  four  years  than  in 
all  my  preceding  life.  Whether  brought 
more  strikingly  out  by  the  contrast  with 
English  manners,  or  that  my  Yankee 
friends  assumed  an  extra  peculiarity  from 
a  sense  of  defiant  patriotism,  so  it  was  that 
their  tones,  sentiments,  and  behavior,  even 
their  figures  and  cast  of  countenance,  all 
seemed  chiseled  in.  sharper  angles  than 
ever  I  had  imagined  them  to  be  at  home. 
It  impressed  me  with  an  odd  idea  of  having 
somehow  lost  the  property  of  my  own  per 
son,  when  I  occasionally  heard  one  of  them 
speaking  of  me  as  "  my  Consul ! "  They 
often  came  to  the  Consulate  in  parties  of 
half  a  dozen  or  more,  on  no  business  what 
ever,  but  merely  to  subject  their  public 
servant  to  a  rigid  examination,  and  see 
how  he  was  getting  on  with  his  duties. 
These  interviews  were  rather  formidable, 
being  characterized  by  a  certain  stiffness 
which  I  felt  to  be  sufficiently  irksome  at 
the  moment,  though  it  looks  laughable 
enough  in  the  retrospect.  It  is  my  firm 
belief  that  these  fellow-citizens,  possessing 
a  native  tendency  to  organization,  gener 
ally  halted  outside  of  the  door,  to  elect  a 
speaker,  chairman,  or  moderator,  and  thus 


10  .OUR   OLD  HOME 

approached  me  with  all  the  formalities  of 
a  deputation  from  the  American  people. 
After  salutations  on  both  sides,  —  abrupt, 
awful,  and  severe  on  their  part,  and  dep 
recatory  on  mine,  —  and  the  national  cere 
mony  of  shaking  hands  being  duly  gone 
through  with,  the  interview  proceeded  by 
a  series  of  calm  and  well-considered  ques 
tions  or  remarks  from  the  spokesman  (no 
other  of  the  guests  vouchsafing  to  utter  a 
word),  and  diplomatic  responses  from  the 
Consul,  who  sometimes  found  the  investi 
gation  a  little  more  searching  than  he  liked. 
I  flatter  myself,  however,  that,  by  much 
practice,  I  attained  considerable  skill  in 
this  kind  of  intercourse,  the  art  of  which 
lies  in  passing  off  commonplaces  for  new 
and  valuable  truths,  and  talking  trash  and 
emptiness  in  such  a  way  that  a  pretty  acute 
auditor  might  mistake  it  for  something 
solid.  If  there  be  any  better  method  of 
dealing  with  such  junctures, — when  talk 
is  to  be  created  out  of  nothing,  and  within 
the  scope  of  several  minds  at  once,  so  that 
you  cannot  apply  yourself  to  your  inter 
locutor's  individuality,  —  I  have  not  learned 
it. 

Sitting,    as   it    were,    in    the    gateway 
between    the    Old    World   and    the    New, 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  II 

where  the  steamers  and  packets  landed  the 
greater  part  of  our  wandering  countrymen, 
and  received  them  again  when  their  wander 
ings  were  done,  I  saw  that  no  people  on 
earth  have  such  vagabond  habits  as  our 
selves.  The  Continental  races  never  travel 
at  all  if  they  can  help  it ;  nor  does  an 
Englishman  ever  think  of  stirring  abroad, 
unless  he  has  the  money  to  spare,  or  pro 
poses  to  himself  some  definite  advantage 
from  the  journey ;  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  nothing  was  more  common  than  for  a 
young  American  deliberately  to  spend  all 
his  resources  in  an  aesthetic  peregrination 
about  Europe,  returning  with  pockets  nearly 
empty  to  begin  the  world  in  earnest.  It 
happened,  indeed,  much  oftener  than  was 
at  all  agreeable  to  myself,  that  their  funds 
held  out  just  long  enough  to  bring  them 
to  the  door  of  my  Consulate,  where  they 
entered  as  if  with  an  undeniable  right  to 
its  shelter  and  protection,  and  required  at 
my  hands  to  be  sent  home  again.  In  my 
first  simplicity,  —  finding  them  gentle 
manly  in  manners,  passably  educated,  and 
only  tempted  a  little  beyond  their  means 
by  a  laudable  desire  of  improving  and 
refining  themselves,  or  perhaps  for  the 
sake  of  getting  better  artistic  instruction 


12  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  music,  painting,  or  sculpture  than  our 
country  could  supply,  —  I  sometimes  took 
charge  of  them  on  my  private  responsibility, 
since  our  government  gives  itself  no  trouble 
about  its  stray  children,  except  the  sea 
faring  class.  But,  after  a  few  such  experi 
ments,  discovering  that  none  of  these 
estimable  and  ingenuous  young  men,  how 
ever  trustworthy  they  might  appear,  ever 
dreamed  of  reimbursing  the  Consul,  I 
deemed  it  expedient  to  take  another  course 
with  them.  Applying  myself  to  some 
friendly  shipmaster,  I  engaged  homeward 
passages  on  their  behalf,  with  the  under 
standing  that  they  were  to  make  them 
selves  serviceable  on  shipboard ;  and  I 
remember  several  very  pathetic  appeals 
from  painters  and  musicians,  touching  the 
damage  which  their  artistic  fingers  were 
likely  to  incur  from  handling  the  ropes. 
But  my  observation  of  so  many  heavier 
troubles  left  me  very  little  tenderness  for 
their  finger-ends.  In  time  I  grew  to  be 
reasonably  hard-hearted,  though  it  never 
was  quite  possible  to  leave  a  countryman 
with  no  shelter  save  an  English  poorhouse, 
when,  as  he  invariably  averred,  he  had  only 
to  set  foot  on  his  native  soil  to  be  possessed 
of  ample  funds.  It  was  my  ultimate  con- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  13 

elusion,  however,  that  American  ingenuity 
may  be  pretty  safely  left  to  itself,  and  that, 
one  way  or  another,  a  Yankee  vagabond  is 
certain  to  turn  up  at  his  own  threshold,  if 
he  has  any,  without  help  of  a  Consul,  and 
perhaps  be  taught  a  lesson  of  foresight  that 
may  profit  him  hereafter. 

Among  these  stray  Americans,  I  met 
with  no  other  case  so  remarkable  as  that 
of  an  old  man,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  me  once  in  a  few  months,  and 
soberly  affirmed  that  he  had  been  wandering 
about  England  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  (precisely  twenty-seven  years,  I 
think),  and  all  the  while  doing  his  utmost 
to  get  home  again.  Herman  Melville,  in 
his  excellent  novel  or  biography  of  "  Israel 
Potter,"  has  an  idea  somewhat  similar  to 
this.  The  individual  now  in  question  was 
a  mild  and  patient,  but  very  ragged  and 
pitiable  old  fellow,  shabby  beyond  descrip 
tion,  lean  and  hungry-looking,  but  with  a 
large  and  somewhat  red  nose.  He  made 
no  complaint  of  his  ill-fortune,  but  only 
repeated  in  a  quiet  voice,  with  a  pathos  of 
which  he  was  himself  evidently  unconscious, 
"  I  want  to  get  home  to  Ninety-Second 
Street,  Philadelphia."  He  described  him 
self  as  a  printer  by  trade,  and  said  that  he 


14  OUR   OLD  HOME 

had  come  over  when  he  was  a  younger 
man,  in  the  hope  of  bettering  himself,  and 
for  the  sake  of  seeing  the  Old  Country, 
but  had  never  since  been  rich  enough  to 
pay  his  homeward  passage.  His  manner 
and  accent  did  not  quite  convince  me  that 
he  was  an  American,  and  I  told  him  so  ; 
but  he  steadfastly  affirmed,  "  Sir,  I  was 
born  and  have  lived  in  Ninety-Second 
Street,  Philadelphia,"  and  then  went  on  to 
describe  some  public  edifices  and  other 
local  objects  with  which  he  used  to  be 
familiar,  adding,  with  a  simplicity  that 
touched  me  very  closely,  "  Sir,  I  had  rather 
be  there  than  here  1  "  Though  I  still  man 
ifested  a  lingering  doubt,  he  took  no  of 
fense,  replying  with  the  same  mild  depres 
sion  as  at  first,  and  insisting  again  and 
again  on  Ninety-Second  Street.  Up  to 
the  time  when  I  saw  him,  he  still  got  a 
little  occasional  job-work  at  his  trade,  but 
subsisted  mainly  on  such  charity  as  he  met 
with  in  his  wanderings,  shifting  from  place 
to  place  continually,  and  asking  assistance 
to  convey  him  to  his  native  land.  Possibly 
he  was  an  impostor,  one  of  the  multitu 
dinous  shapes  of  English  vagabondism,  and 
told  his  falsehood  with  such  powerful  sim 
plicity,  because,  by  many  repetitions,  he 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  15 

had  convinced  himself  of  its  truth.  But 
if,  as  I  believe,  the  tale  was  fact,  how  very 
strange  and  sad  was  this  old  man's  fate  ! 
Homeless  on  a  foreign  shore,  looking 
always  towards  his  country,  coming  again 
and  again  to  the  point  whence  so  many 
were  setting  sail  for  it,  —  so  many  who 
would  soon  tread  in  Ninety-Second  Street, 
—  losing,  in  this  long  series  of  years,  some 
of  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  an 
American,  and  at  last  dying  and  surrender 
ing  his  clay  to  be  a  portion  of  the  soil 
whence  he  could  not  escape  in  his  life 
time. 

He  appeared  to  see  that  he  had  moved 
me,  but  did  not  attempt  to  press  his  ad 
vantage  with  any  new  argument,  or  any 
varied  form  of  entreaty.  He  had  but 
scanty  and  scattered  thoughts  in  his  gray 
head,  and  in  the  intervals  of  those,  like  the 
refrain  of  an  old  ballad,  came  in  the  monot 
onous  burden  of  his  appeal,  "If  I  could 
only  find  myself  in  Ninety-Second  Street, 
Philadelphia  !  "  But  even  his  desire  of 
getting  home  had  ceased  to  be  an  ardent 
one  (if,  indeed,  it  had  not  always  partaken 
of  the  dreamy  sluggishness  of  his  char- 
acter),  although  it  remained  his  only  loco 
motive  impulse,  and  perhaps  the  sole 


1 6  OUR  OLD  HOME 

principle  of  life  that  kept  his  blood  from 
actual  torpor. 

The  poor  old  fellow's  story  seemed  to 
me  almost  as  worthy  of  being  chanted  in 
immortal  song  as  that  of  Odysseus  or 
Evangeline.  I  took  his  case  into  deep 
consideration,  but  dared  not  incur  the 
moral  responsibility  of  sending  him  across 
the  sea,  at  his  age,  after  so  many  years  of 
exile,  when  the  very  tradition  of  him  had 
passed  away,  to  find  his  friends  dead,  or 
forgetful,  or  irretrievably  vanished,  and  the 
whole  country  become  more  truly  a  foreign 
land  to  him  than  England  was  now,  —  and 
even  Ninety-Second  Street,  in  the  weed- 
like  decay  and  growth  of  our  localities, 
made  over  anew  and  grown  unrecognizable 
by  his  old  eyes.  That  street,  so  patiently 
longed  for,  had  transferred  itself  to  the 
New  Jerusalem,  and  he  must  seek  it  there, 
contenting  his  slow  heart,  meanwhile,  with 
the  smoke-begrimed  thoroughfares  of  Eng 
lish  towns,  or  the  green  country  lanes  and 
by-paths  with  which  his  wanderings  had 
made  him  familiar ;  for  doubtless  he  had  a 
beaten  track,  and  was  the  "long-remem 
bered  beggar "  now,  with  food  and  a 
roughly  hospitable  greeting  ready  for  him 
at  many  a  farmhouse  door,  and  his  choice 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  \J 

of  lodging  under  a  score  of  haystacks.  In 
America,  nothing  awaited  him  but  that 
worst  form  of  disappointment  which  comes 
under  the  guise  of  a  long-cherished  and 
late-accomplished  purpose,  and  then  a  year 
or  two  of  dry  and  barren  sojourn  in  an 
almshouse,  and  death  among  strangers  at 
last,  where  he  had  imagined  a  circle  of 
familiar  faces.  So  I  contented  myself  with 
giving  him  alms,  which  he  thankfully  ac 
cepted,  and  went  away  with  bent  shoulders 
and  an  aspect  of  gentle  forlornness  ;  re 
turning  upon  his  orbit,  however,  after  a 
few  months,  to  tell  the  same  sad  and  quiet 
story  of  his  abode  in  England  for  more 
than  twenty-seven  years,  in  all  which  time 
he  had  been  endeavoring,  and  still  en 
deavored  as  patiently  as  ever,  to  find  his 
way  home  to  Ninety-Second  Street,  Phil 
adelphia. 

I  recollect  another  case,  of  a  more  ridic 
ulous  order,  but  still  with  a  foolish  kind  of 
pathos  entangled  in  it,  which  impresses  me 
now  more  forcibly  than  it  did  at  the  moment. 
One  day,  a  queer,  stupid,  good-natured, 
fat-faced  individual  came  into  my  private 
room,  dressed  in  a  sky-blue,  cut-away  coat 
and  mixed  trousers,  both  garments  worn 
and  shabby,  and  rather  too  small  for  his 


1 8  OUR   OLD   HOME 

overgrown  bulk.  After  a  little  preliminary 
talk,  he  turned  out  to  be  a  country  shop 
keeper  (from  Connecticut,  I  think),  who 
had  left  a  flourishing  business,  and  come 
over  to  England  purposely  and  solely  to 
have  an  interview  with  the  Queen.  Some 
years  before  he  had  named  his  two  children, 
one  for  her  Majesty  and  the  other  for 
Prince  Albert,  and  had  transmitted  photo 
graphs  of  the  little  people,  as  well  as  of 
his  wife  and  himself,  to  the  illustrious  god 
mother.  The  Queen  had  gratefully  ac 
knowledged  the  favor  in  a  letter  under  the 
hand  of  her  private  secretary.  Now,  the 
shopkeeper,  like  a  great  many  other  Amer 
icans,  had  long  cherished  a  fantastic  notion 
that  he  was  one  of  the  rightful  heirs  of  a 
rich  English  estate;  and  on  the  strength 
of  her  Majesty's  letter  and  the  hopes  of 
royal  patronage  which  it  inspired,  he  had 
shut  up  his  little  country  store  and  come 
over  to  claim  his  inheritance.  On  the 
voyage,  a  German  fellow-passenger  had 
relieved  him  of  his  money  on  pretense  of 
getting  it  favorably  exchanged,  and  had 
disappeared  immediately  on  the  ship's  ar 
rival  ;  so  that  the  poor  fellow  was  compelled 
to  pawn  all  his  clothes,  except  the  remark 
ably  shabby  ones  in  which  I  beheld  him, 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  19 

and  in  which  (as  he  himself  hinted,  with  a 
melancholy,  yet  good-natured  smile)  he  did 
not  look  altogether  fit  to  see  the  Queen. 
I  agreed  with  him  that  the  bobtailed  coat 
and  mixed  trousers  constituted  a  very  odd- 
looking  court-dress,  and  suggested  that  it 
was  doubtless  his  present  purpose  to  get 
back  to  Connecticut  as  fast  as  possible. 
But  no  !  The  resolve  to  see  the  Queen 
was  as  strong  in  him  as  ever ;  and  it  was 
marvelous  the  pertinacity  with  which  he 
clung  to  it  amid  raggedness  and  starvation, 
and  the  earnestness  of  his  supplication  that 
I  would  supply  him  with  funds  for  a  suita 
ble  appearance  at  Windsor  Castle. 

I  never  had  so  satisfactory  a  perception 
of  a  complete  booby  before  in  my  life  ;  and 
it  caused  me  to  feel  kindly  towards  him, 
and  yet.  impatient  and  exasperated  on  be 
half  of  common  sense,  which  could  not  pos 
sibly  tolerate  that  such  an  unimaginable 
donkey  should  exist.  I  laid  his  absurdity 
before  him  in  the  very  plainest  terms,  but 
without  either  exciting  his  anger  or  shak 
ing  his  resolution.  "  Oh,  my  dear  man," 
quoth  he,  with  good-natured,  placid,  simple, 
and  tearful  stubbornness,  "  if  you  could 
but  enter  into  my  feelings  and  see  the 
matter  from  beginning  to  end  as  I  see  it ! " 


2O  OUR   OLD  HOME 

To  confess  the  truth,  I  have  since  felt  that 
I  was  hard-hearted  to  the  poor  simpleton, 
and  that  there  was  more  weight  in  his  re 
monstrance  than  I  chose  to  be  sensible  of, 
at  the  time ;  for,  like  many  men  who  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  making  playthings  or 
tools  of  their  imagination  and  sensibility,  I 
was  too  rigidly  tenacious  of  what  was 
reasonable  in  the  affairs  of  real  life.  And 
even  absurdity  has  its  rights,  when,  as  in 
this  case,  it  has  absorbed  a  human  being's 
entire  nature  and  purposes.  I  ought  to 
have  transmitted  him  to  Mr.  Buchanan,  in 
London,  who,  being  a  good-natured  old 
gentleman,  and  anxious,  just  then,  to  grat 
ify  the  universal  Yankee  nation,  might,  for 
the  joke's  sake,  have  got  him  admittance 
to  the  Queen,  who  had  fairly  laid  herself 
open  to  his  visit,  and  has  received  hun 
dreds  of  our  countrymen  on  infinitely 
slighter  grounds.  But  I  was  inexorable, 
being  turned  to  flint  by  the  insufferable 
proximity  of  a  fool,  and  refused  to  interfere 
with  his  business  in  any  way  except  to  pro 
cure  him  a  passage  home.  I  can  see  his 
face  of  mild,  ridiculous  despair  at  this  mo 
ment,  and  appreciate,  better  than  I  could 
then,  how  awfully  cruel  he  must  have  felt 
my  obduracy  to  be.  For  years  and  years, 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  21 

the  idea  of  an  interview  with  Queen  Vic 
toria  had  haunted  his  poor  foolish  mind ; 
and  now,  when  he  really  stood  on  English 
ground,  and  the  palace  door  was  hanging 
ajar  for  him,  he  was  expected  to  turn  back, 
a  penniless  and  bamboozled  simpleton, 
merely  because  an  iron-hearted  Consul  re 
fused  to  lend  him  thirty  shillings  (so  low 
had  his  demand  ultimately  sunk)  to  buy  a 
second-class  ticket  on  the  rail  for  London  ! 
He  visited  the  Consulate  several  times 
afterwards,  subsisting  on  a  pittance  that  I 
allowed  him  in  the  hope  of  gradually  starv 
ing  him  back  to  Connecticut,  assailing  me 
with  the  old  petition  at  every  opportunity, 
looking  shabbier  at  every  visit,  but  still 
thoroughly  good-tempered,  mildly  stubborn, 
and  smiling  through  his  tears,  not  without 
a  perception  of  the  ludicrousness  of  his 
own  position.  Finally,  he  disappeared  al 
together,  and  whither  he  had  wandered, 
and  whether  he  ever  saw  the  Queen,  or 
wasted  quite  away  in  the  endeavor,  I  never 
knew ;  but  I  remember  unfolding  the 
"  Times,"  about  that  period,  with  a  daily 
dread  of  reading  an  account  of  a  ragged 
Yankee's  attempt  to  steal  into  Buckingham 
Palace,  and  how  he  smiled  tearfully  at  his 
captors,  and  besought  them  to  introduce 


22  OUR    OLD    HOME 

him  to  her  Majesty.  I  submit  to  Mr.  Sec 
retary  Seward  that  he  ought  to  make  diplo 
matic  remonstrances  to  the  British  Minis 
try,  and  require  them  to  take  such  order 
that  the  Queen  shall  not  any  longer  be 
wilder  the  wits  of  our  poor  compatriots  by 
responding  to  their  epistles  and  thanking 
them  for  their  photographs. 

One  circumstance  in  the  foregoing  inci 
dent  —  I  mean  the  unhappy  storekeeper's 
notion  of  establishing  his  claim  to  an  Eng 
lish  estate  —  was  common  to  a  great  many 
other  applications,  personal  or  by  letter, 
with  which  I  was  favored  by  my  country 
men.  The  cause  of  this  peculiar  insanity 
lies  deep  in  the  Anglo-American  heart. 
After  all  these  bloody  wars  and  vindictive 
animosities,  we  have  still  an  unspeakable 
yearning  towards  England.  When  our 
forefathers  left  the  old  home,  they  pulled 
up  many  of  their  roots,  but  trailed  along 
with  them  others,  which  were  never  snapt 
asunder  by  the  tug  of  such  a  lengthening 
distance,  nor  have  been  torn  out  of  the 
original  soil  by  the  violence  of  subsequent 
struggles,  nor  severed  by  the  edge  of  the 
sword.  -Even  so  late  as  these  days,  they 
remain  entangled  with  our  heart-strings, 
and  might  often  have  influenced  our  na- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  2$ 

tional  cause  like  the  tiller-ropes  of  a  ship,  if 
the  rough  gripe  of  England  had  been  capa 
ble  of  managing  so  sensitive  a  kind  of  ma 
chinery.  It  has  required  nothing  less  than 
the  boorishness,  the  stolidity,  the  self-suffi 
ciency,  the  contemptuous  jealousy,  the  half- 
sagacity,  invariably  blind  of  one  eye  and 
often  distorted  of  the  other,  that  character 
ize  this  strange  people,  to  compel  us  to  be 
a  great  nation  in  our  own  right,  instead  of 
continuing  virtually,  if  not  in  name,  a  prov 
ince  of  their  small  island.  What  pains  did 
they  take  to  shake  us  off,  and  have  ever 
since  taken  to  keep  us  wide  apart  from 
them  !  It  might  seem  their  folly,  but  was 
really  their  fate,  or,  rather,  the  Providence 
of  God,  who  has  doubtless  a  work  for  us  to 
do,  in  which  the  massive  materiality  of  the 
English  character  would  have  been  too 
ponderous  a  dead-weight  upon  our  progress. 
And,  besides,  if  England  had  been  wise 
enough  to  twine  our  new  vigor  round  about 
her  ancient  strength,  her  power  would  have 
been  too  firmly  established  ever  to  yield,  in 
its  due  season,  to  the  otherwise  immutable 
law  of  imperial  vicissitude.  The  earth 
might  then  have  beheld  the  intolerable 
spectacle  of  a  sovereignty  and  institutions, 
imperfect,  but  indestructible. 


24  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Nationally,  there  has  ceased  to  be  any 
peril  of  so  inauspicious  and  yet  outwardly 
attractive  an  amalgamation,  But  as  an  in 
dividual,  the  American  is  often  conscious 
of  the  deep-rooted  sympathies-  that  belong 
more  fitly  to  times  gone  by,  and  feels  a 
blind  pathetic  tendency  to  wander  back 
again,  which  makes  itself  evident  in  such 
wild  dreams  as  I  have  alluded  to  above, 
about  English  inheritances.  A  mere  coin 
cidence  of  names  (the  Yankee  one,  perhaps, 
having  been  assumed  by  legislative  per 
mission),  a  supposititious  pedigree,  a  silver 
mug  on  which  an  anciently  engraved  coat 
of  arms  has  been  half  scrubbed  out,  a  seal 
with  an  uncertain  crest,  an  old  yellow  letter 
or  document  in  faded  ink,  the  more  scantily 
legible  the  better,  —  rubbish  of  this  kind, 
found  in  a  neglected  drawer,  has  been  po 
tent  enough  to  turn  the  brain  of  many  an 
honest  Republican,  especially  if  assisted 
by  an  advertisement  for  lost  heirs,  cut  out 
of  a  British  newspaper.  There  is  no  esti 
mating  or  believing,  till  we  come  into  a  po 
sition  to  know  it,  what  foolery  lurks  latent 
-in  the  breasts  of  very  sensible  people.  Re 
membering  such  sober  extravagances,  I 
should  not  be  at  all  surprised  to  find  that 
I  am  myself  guilty  of  some  unsuspected 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  2$ 

absurdity,  that  may  appear  to  me  the  most 
substantial  trait  in  my  character. 

I  might  fill  many  pages  with  instances 
of  this  diseased  American  appetite  for 
English  soil.  A  respectable-looking  woman, 
well  advanced  in  life,  of  sour  aspect,  ex 
ceedingly  homely,  but  decidedly  New-Eng- 
landish  in  figure  and  manners,  came  to  my 
office  with  a  great  bundle  of  documents,  at 
the  very  first  glimpse  of  which  I  appre 
hended  something  terrible.  Nor  was  I 
mistaken.  The  bundle  contained  evidences 
of  her  indubitable  claim  to  the  site  on 
which  Castle  Street,  the  Town  Hall,  the 
Exchange,  and  all  the  principal  business 
part  of  Liverpool  have  long  been  situated ; 
and,  with  considerable  peremptoriness,  the 
good  lady  signified  her  expectation  that  I 
should  take  charge  of  her  suit,  and  pros 
ecute  it  to  judgment  ;  not,  however,  on  the 
equitable  condition  of  receiving  half  the 
value  of  the  property  recovered  (which,  in 
case  of  complete  success,  would  have  made 
both  of  us  ten  or  twenty  fold  millionnaires), 
but  without  recompense  or  reimbursement 
of  legal  expenses,  solely  as  an  incident  of 
my  official  duty.  Another  time  came  two 
ladies,  bearing  a  letter  of  emphatic  intro 
duction  from  his  Excellency  the  Governor 


26  OUR   OLD   HOME 

of  their  native  State,  who  testified  in  most 
satisfactory  terms  to  their  social  respec 
tability.  They  were  claimants  of  a  great 
estate  in  Cheshire,  and  announced  them 
selves  as  blood-relatives  of  Queen  Victoria, 
—  a  point,  however,  which  they  deemed  it 
expedient  to  keep  in  the  background  until 
their  territorial  rights  should  be  established, 
apprehending  that  the  Lord  High  Chancel 
lor  might  otherwise  be  less  likely  to  come 
to  a  fair  decision  in  respect  to  them,  from 
a  probable  disinclination  to  admit  new 
members  into  the  royal  kin.  Upon  my 
honor,  I  imagine  that  they  had  an  eye  to 
the  possibility  of  the  eventual  succession 
of  one  or  both  of  them  to  the  crown  of 
Great  Britain  through  superiority  of  title 
over  the  Brunswick  line ;  although,  being 
maiden  ladies,  like  their  predecessor  Eliz 
abeth,  they  could  hardly  have  hoped  to 
establish  a  lasting  dynasty  upon  the  throne. 
It  proves,  I  trust,  a  certain  disinterested 
ness  on  my  part,  that,  encountering  them 
thus  in  the  dawn  of  their  fortunes,  I  for 
bore  to  put  in  a  plea  for  a  future  dukedom. 
Another  visitor  of  the  same  class  was  a 
gentleman  of  refined  manners,  handsome 
figure,  and  remarkably  intellectual  aspect. 
Like  many  men  of  an  adventurous  cast,  he 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  27 

had  so  quiet  a  deportment,  and  such  an 
apparent  disinclination  to  general  sociabil 
ity,  that  you  would  have  fancied  him 
moving  always  along  some  peaceful  and 
secluded  walk  of  life.  Yet,  literally  from 
his  first  hour,  he  had  been  tossed  upon  the 
surges  of  a  most  varied  and  tumultuous 
existence,  having  been  born  at  sea,  of 
American  parentage,  but  on  board  of  a 
Spanish  vessel,  and  spending  many  of  the 
subsequent  years  in  voyages,  travels,  and 
outlandish  incidents  and  vicissitudes,  which, 
methought,  had  hardly  been  paralleled  since 
the  days  of  Gulliver  or  De  Foe.  When 
his  dignified  reserve  was  overcome,  he  had 
the  faculty  of  narrating  these  adventures 
with  wonderful  eloquence,  working  up  his 
descriptive  sketches  with  such  intuitive 
perception  of  the  picturesque  points  that 
the  whole  was  thrown  forward  with  a  pos 
itively  illusive  effect,  like  matters  of  your 
own  visual  experience.  In  fact,  they  were 
so  admirably  done  that  I  could  never  more 
than  half  believe  them,  because  the  genuine 
affairs  of  life  are  not  apt  to  transact  them 
selves  so  artistically.  Many  of  his  scenes 
were  laid  in  the  East,  and  among  those 
seldom-visited  archipelagoes  of  the  Indian 
Ocean,  so  that  there  was  an  Oriental  fra- 


28  OUR   OLD   HOME 

grance  breathing  through  his  talk,  and  an 
odor  of  the  Spice  Islands  still  lingering  in 
his  garments.  He  had  much  to  say  of  the 
delightful  qualities  of  the  Malay  pirates, 
who,  indeed,  carry  on  a  predatory  warfare 
against  the  ships  of  all  civilized  nations, 
and  cut  every  Christian  throat  among  their 
prisoners ;  but  (except  for  deeds  of  that 
character,  which  are  the  rule  and  habit  of 
their  life,  and  matter  of  religion  and  con 
science  with  them)  they  are  a  gentle- 
natured  people,  of  primitive  innocence  and 
integrity. 

But  his  best  story  was  about  a  race  of 
men  (if  men  they  were)  who  seemed  so 
fully  to  realize  Swift's  wicked  fable  of  the 
Yahoos,  that  my  friend  was  much  exercised 
with  psychological  speculations  whether  or 
no  they  had  any  souls.  They  dwelt  in  the 
wilds  of  Ceylon,  like  other  savage  beasts, 
hairy,  and  spotted  with  tufts  of  fur,  filthy, 
shameless,  weaponless  (though  warlike  in 
their  individual  bent),  tool-less,  houseless, 
language-less,  except  for  a  few  guttural 
sounds,  hideously  dissonant,  whereby  they 
held  some  rudest  kind  of  communication 
among  themselves.  They  lacked  both 
memory  and  foresight,  and  were  wholly 
destitute  of  government,  social  institutions, 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  29 

or  law  or  rulership  of  any  description,  ex 
cept  the  immediate  tyranny  of  the  strong 
est  ;  radically  untamable,  moreover,  save 
that  the  people  of  the  country  managed  to 
subject  a  few  of  the  less  ferocious  and 
stupid  ones  to  outdoor  servitude  among 
their  other  cattle.  They  were  beastly  in 
almost  all  their  attributes,  and  that  to  such 
a  degree  that  the  observer,  losing  sight  of 
any  link  betwixt  them  and  manhood,  could 
generally  witness  their  brutalities  without 
greater  horror  than  at  those  of  some  dis 
agreeable  quadruped  in  a  menagerie.  And 
yet,  at  times,  comparing  what  were  the 
lowest  general  traits  in  his  own  race  with 
what  was  highest  in  these  abominable 
monsters,  he  found  a  ghastly  similitude 
that  half  compelled  him  to  recognize  them 
as  human  brethren. 

After  these  Gulliverian  researches,  my 
agreeable  acquaintance  had  fallen  under 
the  ban  of  the  Dutch  government,  and  had 
suffered  (this,  at  least,  being  matter  of 
fact)  nearly  two  years'  imprisonment,  with 
confiscation  of  a  large  amount  of  property, 
for  which  Mr.  Belmont,  our  minister  at  the 
Hague,  had  just  made  a  peremptory  demand 
of  reimbursement  and  damages.  Mean 
while,  since  arriving  in  England  on  his 


3O  OUR   OLD  HOME 

way  to  the  United  States,  he  had  been 
providentially  led  to  inquire  into  the^  cir 
cumstances  of  his  birth  on  shipboard,  and 
had  discovered  that  not  himself  alone,  but 
another  baby,  had  come  into  the  world 
during  the  same  voyage  of  the  prolific 
vessel,  and  that  there  were  almost  ir 
refragable  reasons  for  believing  that  these 
two  children  had  been  assigned  to  the 
wrong  mothers.  Many  reminiscences  of 
his  early  days  confirmed  him  in  the  idea 
that  his  nominal  parents  were  aware  of  the 
exchange.  The  family  to  which  he  felt 
authorized  to  attribute  his  lineage  was  that 
of  a  nobleman,  in  the  picture-gallery  of 
whose  country-seat  (whence,  if  I  mistake 
not,  our  adventurous  friend  had  just  re 
turned)  he  had  discovered  a  portrait  bear 
ing  a  striking  resemblance  to  himself.  As 
soon  as  he  should  have  reported  the  out 
rageous  action  of  the  Dutch  government 
to  President  Pierce  and  the  Secretary  of 
State,  and  recovered  the  confiscated  prop 
erty,  he  purposed  to  return  to  England  and 
establish  his  claim  to  the  nobleman's  title 
and  estate. 

I  had  accepted  his  Oriental  fantasies 
(which,  indeed,  to  do  him  justice,  have  been 
recorded  by  scientific  societies  among  the 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  31 

genuine  phenomena  of  natural  history),  not 
as  matters  of  indubitable  credence,  but  as 
allowable  specimens  of  an  imaginative  trav 
eler's  vivid  coloring  and  rich  embroidery 
on  the  coarse  texture  and  dull  neutral  tints 
of  truth.  The  English  romance  was  among 
the  latest  communications  that  he  intrust 
ed  to  my  private  ear ;  and  as  soon  as  I 
heard  the  first  chapter,  —  so  wonderfully 
akin  to  what  I  might  have  wrought  out  of 
my  own  head,  not  unpracticed  in  such  fig 
ments,  —  I  began  to  repent  having  made 
myself  responsible  for  the  future  noble 
man's  passage  homeward  in  the  next  Col 
lins  steamer.  Nevertheless,  should  his 
English  rent-roll  fall  a  little  behindhand, 
his  Dutch  claim  for  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  was  certainly  in  the  hands  of  our 
government,  and  might  at  least  be  valuable 
to  the  extent  of  thirty  pounds,  which  I  had 
engaged  to  pay  on  his  behalf.  But  I  have 
reason  to  fear  that  his  Dutch  riches  turned 
out  to  be  Dutch  gilt  or  fairy  gold,  and  his 
English  country-seat  a  mere  castle  in  the 
air,  —  which  I  exceedingly  regret,  for  he 
was  a  delightful  companion  and  a  very 
gentlemanly  man. 

A  Consul,  in  his  position  of  universal  re 
sponsibility,  the  general  adviser  and  helper, 


32  OUR   OLD   HOME 

sometimes  finds  himself  compelled  to  as 
sume  the  guardianship  of  personages  who, 
in  their  own  sphere,  are  supposed  capable 
of  superintending  the  highest  interests  of 
whole  communities.  An  elderly  Irishman, 
a  naturalized  citizen,  once  put  the  desire 
and  expectation  of  all  our  penniless  vaga 
bonds  into  a  very  suitable  phrase,  by  pa 
thetically  entreating  me  to  be  a  "father  to 
him  ; "  and,  simple  as  I  sit  scribbling  here, 
I.  have  acted  a  father's  part,  not  only  by 
scores  of  such  unthrifty  old  children  as 
himself,  but  by  a  progeny  of  far  loftier 
pretensions.  It  may  be  well  for  persons 
who  are  conscious  of  any  radical  weakness 
in  their  character,  any  besetting  sin,  any 
unlawful  propensity,  any  unhallowed  im 
pulse,  which  (while  surrounded  with  the 
manifold  restraints  that  protect  a  man  from 
that  treacherous  and  lifelong  enemy,  his 
lower  self,  in  the  circle  of  society  where  he 
is  at  home)  they  may  have  succeeded  in 
keeping  under  the  lock  and  key  of  strict 
est  propriety,  —  it  may  be  well  for  them, 
before  seeking  the  perilous  freedom  of  a 
distant  land,  released  from  the  watchful 
eyes  of  neighborhoods  and  coteries,  light 
ened  of  that  wearisome  burden,  an  immac 
ulate  name,  and  blissfully  obscure  after 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  33 

years  of  local  prominence,  —  it  may  be  well 
for  such  individuals  to  know  that  when 
they  set  foot  on  a  foreign  shore,  the  long- 
imprisoned  Evil,  scenting  a  wild  license 
in  the  unaccustomed  atmosphere,  is  apt  to 
grow  riotous  in  its  iron  cage.  It  rattles 
the  rusty  barriers  with  gigantic  turbulence, 
and  if  there  be  an  infirm  joint  anywhere  in 
the  framework,  it  breaks  madly  forth,  com 
pressing  the  mischief  of  a  lifetime  into  a 
little  space. 

A  parcel  of  letters  had  been  accumulat 
ing  at  the  Consulate  for  two  or  three  weeks, 
directed  to  a  certain  Doctor  of  Divinity, 
who  had  left  America  by  a  sailing-packet 
and  was  still  upon  the  sea.  In  due  time, 
the  vessel  arrived,  and  the  reverend  Doc 
tor  paid  me  a  visit.  He  was  a  fine-looking 
middle-aged  gentleman,  a  perfect  model  of 
clerical  propriety,  scholar-like,  yet  with  the 
air  of  a  man  of  the  world  rather  than  a  stu 
dent,  though  overspread  with  the  graceful 
sanctity  of  a  popular  metropolitan  divine,  a 
part  of  whose  duty  it  might  be  to  exem 
plify  the  natural  accordance  between  Chris 
tianity  and  good-breeding.  He  seemed  a 
little  excited,  as  an  American  is  apt  to  be 
on  first  arriving  in  England,  but  conversed 
with  intelligence  as  well  as  animation,  mak- 


34  OUR   OLD   HOME 

ing  himself  so  agreeable  that  his  visit  stood 
out  in  considerable  relief  from  the  mo 
notony  of  my  daily  commonplace.  As  I 
learned  from  authentic  sources,  he  was 
somewhat  distinguished  in  his  own  region 
for  fervor  and  eloquence  in  the  pulpit,  but 
was  now  compelled  to  relinquish  it  tempo 
rarily  for  the  purpose  of  renovating  his 
impaired  health  by  an  extensive  tour  in 
Europe.  Promising  to  dine  with  me,  he 
took  up  his  bundle  of  letters  and  went 
away. 

The  Doctor,  however,  failed  to  make  his 
appearance  at  dinner-time,  or  to  apologize 
the  next  day  for  his  absence ;  and  in  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two  more,  I  forgot  all 
about  him,  concluding  that  he  must  have 
set  forth  on  his  Continental  travels,  the 
plan  of  which  he  had  sketched  out  at  our 
interview.  But,  by  and  by,  I  received  a 
call  from  the  master  of  the  vessel  in  which 
he  had  arrived.  He  was  in  some  alarm 
about  his  passenger,  whose  luggage  re 
mained  on  shipboard,  but  of  whom  nothing 
had  been  heard  or  seen  since  the  moment 
of  his  departure  from  the  Consulate.  We 
conferred  together,  the  captain  and  I,  about 
the  expediency  of  setting  the  police  on 
the  traces  (if  any  were  to  be  found)  of  our 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  35 

vanished  friend  ;  but  it  struck  me  that  the 
good  captain  was  singularly  reticent,  and 
that  there  was  something  a  little  myste 
rious  in  a  few  points  that  he  hinted  at 
rather  than  expressed  ;  so  that,  scrutinizing 
the  affair  carefully,  I  surmised  that  the 
intimacy  of  life  on  shipboard  might  have 
taught  him  more  about  the  reverend  gentle 
man  than,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he 
deemed  it  prudent  to  reveal.  At  home,  in 
our  native  country,  I  would  have  looked  to 
the  Doctor's  personal  safety  and  left  his 
reputation  to  take  care  of  itself,  knowing 
that  the  good  fame  of  a  thousand  saintly 
clergymen  would  amply  dazzle  out  any  la 
mentable  spot  on  a  single  brother's  char 
acter.  But  in  scornful  and  invidious  Eng 
land,  on  the  idea  that  the  credit  of  the 
sacred  office  was  measurably  intrusted  to 
my  discretion,  I  could  not  endure,  for  the 
sake  of  American  Doctors  of  Divinity  gen 
erally,  that  this  particular  Doctor  should 
cut  an  ignoble  figure  in  the  police  reports 
of  the  English  newspapers,  except  at  the 
last  necessity.  The  clerical  body,  I  flatter 
myself,  will  acknowledge  that  I  acted  on 
their  own  principle.  Besides,  it  was  now 
too  late  ;  the  mischief  and  violence,  if  any 
had  been  impending,  were  not  of  a  kind 


36  OUR   OLD  HOME 

which  it  requires  the  better  part  of  a  week 
to  perpetrate  ;  and  to  sum  up  the  entire 
matter,  I  felt  certain,  from  a  good  deal  of 
somewhat  similar  experience,  that,  if  the 
missing  Doctor  still  breathed  this  vital  air, 
he  would  turn  up  at  the  Consulate  as  soon 
as  his  money  should  be  stolen  or  spent. 

Precisely  a  week  after  this  reverend  per 
son's  disappearance,  there  came  to  my 
office  a  tall,  middle-aged  gentleman  in  a 
blue  military  surtout,  braided  at  the  seams, 
but  out  at  elbows,  and  as  shabby  as  if  the 
wearer  had  been  bivouacking  in  it  through 
out  a  Crimean  campaign.  It  was  buttoned 
up  to  the  very  chin,  except  where  three  or 
four  of  the  buttons  were  lost ;  nor  was 
there  any  glimpse  of  a  white  shirt-collar 
illuminating  the  rusty  black  cravat.  A 
grisly  mustache  was  just  beginning  to 
roughen  the  stranger's  upper  lip.  He 
looked  disreputable  to  the  last  degree,  but 
still  had  a  ruined  air  of  good  society  glim 
mering  about  him,  like  a  few  specks  of  pol 
ish  on  a  sword-blade  that  has  lain  corroding 
in  a  mud-puddle.  I  took  him  to  be  some 
American  marine  officer,  of  dissipated  hab 
its,  or  perhaps  a  cashiered  British  major, 
stumbling  into  the  wrong  quarters  through 
the  unrectified  bewilderment  of  the  last 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  37 

night's  debauch.  He  greeted  me,  however, 
with  polite  familiarity,  as  though  we  had 
been  previously  acquainted  ;  whereupon  I 
drew  coldly  back  (as  sensible  people  natu 
rally  do,  whether  from  strangers  or  former 
friends,  when  too  evidently  at  odds  with 
fortune)  and  requested  to  know  who  my 
visitor  might  be,  and  what  was  his  busi 
ness  at  the  Consulate.  "Am  I  then  so 
changed  ?  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  vast  depth 
of  tragic  intonation  ;  and  after  a  little  blind 
and  bewildered  talk,  behold  !  the  truth 
flashed  upon  me.  It  was  the  Doctor  of 
Divinity !  If  I  had  meditated  a  scene  or 
a  coup  de  theatre,  I  could  not  have  con 
trived  a  more  effectual  one  than  by  this 
simple  and  genuine  difficulty  of  recogni 
tion.  The  poor  Divine  must  have  felt  that 
he  had  lost  his  personal  identity  through 
the  misadventures  of  one  little  week. 
And,  to  say  the  truth,  he  did  look  as  if, 
like  Job,  on  account  of  his  especial  sanc 
tity,  he  had  been  delivered  over  to  the 
direst  temptations  of  Satan,  and  proving 
weaker  than  the  man  of  Uz,  the  Arch 
Enemy  had  been  empowered  to  drag  him 
through  Tophet,  transforming  him,  in  the 
process,  from  the  most  decorous  clergyman 
into  the  rowdiest  and  dirtiest  of  disbanded 


38  OUR   OLD   HOME 

officers.  I  never  fathomed  the  mystery  of 
his  military  costume,  but  conjectured  that 
a  lurking  sense  of  fitness  had  induced  him 
to  exchange  his  clerical  garments  for  this 
habit  of  a  sinner ;  nor  can  I  tell  precisely 
into  what  pitfall,  not  more  of  vice  than  ter 
rible  calamity,  he  had  precipitated  him 
self,  —  being  more  than  satisfied  to  know 
that  the  outcasts  of  society  can  sink  no 
lower  than  this  poor,  desecrated  wretch 
had  sunk. 

The  opportunity,  I  presume,  does  not 
often  happen  to  a  layman,  of  administering 
moral  and  religious  reproof  to  a  Doctor  of 
Divinity  ;  but  finding  the  occasion  thrust 
upon  me,  and  the  hereditary  Puritan  wax 
ing  strong  in  my  breast,  I  deemed  it  a 
matter  of  conscience  not  to  let  it  pass 
entirely  unimproved.  The  truth  is,  I  was 
unspeakably  shocked  and  disgusted.  Not, 
however,  that  I  was  then  to  learn  that 
clergymen  are  made  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood  as  other  people,  and  perhaps  lack 
one  small  safeguard  which  the  rest  of  us 
possess,  because  they  are  aware  of  their 
own  peccability,  and  therefore  cannot  look 
up  to  the  clerical  class  for  the  proof  of  the 
possibility  of  a  pure  life  on  earth,  with 
such  reverential  confidence  as  we  are  prone 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  39 

to  do.  But  I  remembered  the  innocent 
faith  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  good  old 
silver-headed  clergyman,  who  seemed  to 
me  as  much  a  saint  then  on  earth  as  he  is 
now  in  heaven,  and  partly  for  whose  sake, 
through  all  these  darkening  years,  I  retain 
a  devout,  though  not  intact  nor  unwavering 
respect  for  the  entire  fraternity.  What  a 
hideous  wrong,  therefore,  had  the  back 
slider  inflicted  on  his  brethren,  and  still 
more  on  me,  who  much  needed  whatever 
fragments  of  broken  reverence  (broken, 
not  as  concerned  religion,  but  its  earthly 
institutions  and  professors)  it  might  yet  be 
possible  to  patch  into  a  sacred  image  ! 
Should  all  pulpits  and  communion-tables 
have  thenceforth  a  stain  upon  them,  and 
the  guilty  one  go  unrebuked  for  it  ?  So  I 
spoke  to  the  unhappy  man  as  I  never 
thought  myself  warranted  in  speaking  to 
any  other  mortal,  hitting  him  hard,  doing 
my  utmost  to  find  out  his  vulnerable  part, 
and  prick  him  into  the  depths  of  it.  And 
not  without  more  effect  than  I  had  dreamed 
of,  or  desired  ! 

No  doubt,  the  novelty  of  the  Doctor's 
reversed  position,  thus  standing  up  to  re 
ceive  such  a  f  ulmination  as  the  clergy  have 
heretofore  arrogated  the  exclusive  right  of 


40  OUR   OLD   HOME 

inflicting,  might  give  additional  weight  and 
sting  to  the  words  which  I  found  utterance 
for.  But  there  was  another  reason  (which, 
had  I  in  the  least  suspected  it,  would  have 
closed  my  lips  at  once)  for  his  feeling 
morbidly  sensitive  to  the  cruel  rebuke  that 
I  administered.  The  unfortunate  man  had 
come  to  me,  laboring  under  one  of  the 
consequences  of  his  riotous  outbreak,  in 
the  shape  of  delirium  tremens  ;  he  bore  a 
hell  within  the  compass  of  his  own  breast, 
all  the  torments  of  which  blazed  up  with 
tenfold  inveteracy  when  I  thus  took  upon 
myself  the  Devil's  office  of  stirring  up  the 
red-hot  embers.  His  emotions,  as  well  as 
the  external  movement  and  expression  of 
them  by  voice,  countenance,  and  gesture, 
were  terribly  exaggerated  by  the  tremen 
dous  vibration  of  nerves  resulting  from  the 
disease.  It  was  the  deepest  tragedy  I 
ever  witnessed.  I  know  sufficiently,  from 
that  one  experience,  how  a  condemned  soul 
would  manifest  its  agonies ;  and  for  the 
future,  if  I  have  anything  to  do  with  sin 
ners,  I  mean  to  operate  upon  them  through 
sympathy  and  not  rebuke.  What  had  I  to 
do  with  rebuking  him  ?  The  disease,  long 
latent  in  his  heart,  had  shown  itself  in  a 
frightful  eruption  on  the  surface  of  his  life. 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  41 

That  was  all!  Is  it  a  thing  to  scold  the 
sufferer  for  ? 

To  conclude  this  wretched  story,  the 
poor  Doctor  of  Divinity,  having  been  robbed 
of  all  his  money  in  this  little  airing  beyond 
the  limits  of  propriety,  was  easily  persuaded 
to  give  up  the  intended  tour  and  return  to 
his  bereaved  flock,  who,  very  probably, 
were  thereafter  conscious  of  an  increased 
unction  in  his  soul-stirring  eloquence,  with 
out  suspecting  the  awful  depths  into  which 
their  pastor  had  dived  in  quest  of  it.  His 
voice  is  now  silent.  I  leave  it  to  members 
of  his  own  profession  to  decide  whether  it 
was  better  for  him  thus  to  sin  outright, 
and  so  to  be  let  into  the  miserable  secret 
what  manner  of  man  he  was,  or  to  have 
gone  through  life  outwardly  unspotted, 
making  the  first  discovery  of  his  latent 
evil  at  the  judgment-seat.  It  has  occurred 
to  me  that  his  dire  calamity,  as  both  he 
and  I  regarded  it,  might  have  been  the 
only  method  by  which  precisely  such  a  man 
as  himself,  and  so  situated,  could  be  re 
deemed.  He  has  learned,  ere  now,  how 
that  matter  stood. 

For  a  man,  with  a  natural  tendency  to 
meddle  with  other  people's  business,  there 
could  not  possibly  be  a  more  congenial 


42  '  OUR   OLD  HOME 

sphere  than  the  Liverpool  Consulate.  For 
myself,  I  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of 
feeling  that  I  could  sufficiently  comprehend 
any  particular  conjunction  of  circumstances 
with  human  character,  to  justify  me  in 
thrusting  in  my  awkward  agency  among 
the  intricate  and  unintelligible  machinery 
of  Providence.  I  have  always  hated  to 
give  advice,  especially  when  there  is  a 
prospect  of  its  being  taken.  It  is  only 
one-eyed  people  who  love  to  advise,  or 
have  any  spontaneous  promptitude  of  action. 
When  a  man  opens  both  his  eyes,  he  gen 
erally  sees  about  as  many  reasons  for  acting 
in  any  one  way  as  in  any  other,  and  quite 
as  many  for  acting  in  neither  ;  and  is  there 
fore  likely  to  leave  his  friends  to  regulate 
their  own  conduct,  and  also  to  remain 
quiet  as  regards  his  especial  affairs  till 
necessity  shall  prick  him  onward.  Never 
theless,  the  world  and  individuals  flourish 
upon  a  constant  succession  of  blunders. 
The  secret  of  English  practical  success  lies 
in  their  characteristic  faculty  of  shutting 
one  eye,  whereby  they  get  so  distinct  and 
decided  a  view  of  what  immediately  con 
cerns  them  that  they  go  stumbling  towards 
it  over  a  hundred  insurmountable  obstacles, 
and  achieve  a  magnificent  triumph  without 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  43 

ever  being  aware  of  half  its  difficulties.  If 
General  McClellan  could  but  have  shut 
his  left  eye,  the  right  one  would  long  ago 
have  guided  us  into  Richmond.  Mean 
while,  I  have  strayed  far  away  from  the 
Consulate,  where,  as  I  was  about  to  say,  I 
was  compelled,  in  spite  of  my  disinclina 
tion,  to  impart  both  advice  and  assistance 
in  multifarious  affairs  that  did  not  per 
sonally  concern  me,  and  presume  that  I 
effected  about  as  little  mischief  as  other 
men  in  similar  contingencies.  The  duties 
of  the  office  carried  me  to  prisons,  police- 
courts,  hospitals,  lunatic  asylums,  coroners 
inquests,  death-beds,  funerals,  and  brought 
me  in  contact  with  insane  people,  criminals, 
ruined  speculators,  wild  adventurers,  di 
plomatists,  brother-consuls,  and  all  manner 
of  simpletons  and  unfortunates,  in  greater 
number  and  variety  than  I  had  ever 
dreamed  of  as  pertaining  to  America  ;  in 
addition  to  whom  there  was  an  equivalent 
multitude  of  English  rogues,  dexterously 
counterfeiting  the  genuine  Yankee  article. 
It  required  great  discrimination  not  to  be 
taken  in  by  these  last-mentioned  scoundrels; 
for  they  knew  how  to  imitate  our  national 
traits,  had  been  at  great  pains  to  instruct 
themselves  as  regarded  American  localities, 


44  OUR   OLD  HOME 

and  were  not  readily  to  be  caught  by  a 
cross-examination  as  to  the  topographical 
features,  public  institutions,  or  prominent 
inhabitants  of  the  places  where  they  pre 
tended  to  belong.  The  best  shibboleth  I 
ever  hit  upon  lay  in  the  pronunciation  of 
the  word  "been,"  which  the  English  in 
variably  make  to  rhyme  with  "  green,"  and 
we  Northerners,  at  least  (in  accordance,  I 
think,  with  the  custom  of  Shakespeare's 
time),  universally  pronounce  "bin." 

All  the  matters  that  I  have  been  treating  of, 
however,  were  merely  incidental,  and  quite 
distinct  from  the  real  business  of  the  office. 
A  great  part  of  the  wear  and  tear  of  mind 
and  temper  resulted  from  the  bad  relations 
between  the  seamen  and  officers  of  Amer 
ican  ships.  Scarcely  a  morning  passed, 
but  that  some  sailor  came  to  show  the 
marks  of  his  ill-usage  on  shipboard.  Often, 
it  was  a  whole  crew  of  them,  each  with  his 
broken  head  or  livid  bruise,  and  all  testify 
ing  with  one  voice  to  a  constant  series  of 
savage  outrages  during  the  voyage  ;  or,  it 
might  be,  they  laid  an  accusation  of  actual 
murder,  perpetrated  by  the  first  or  second 
officers,  with  many  blows  of  steel-knuckles, 
a  rope's  end,  or  a  marline-spike,  or  by  the 
captain,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  with  a 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  45 

shot  of  his  pistol.  Taking  the  seamen's 
view  of  the  case,  you  would  suppose  that 
the  gibbet  was  hungry  for  the  murderers. 
Listening  to  the  captain's  defense,  you 
would  seem  to  discover  that  he  and  his 
officers  were  the  humanest  of  mortals,  but 
were  driven  to  a  wholesome  severity  by 
the  mutinous  conduct  of  the  crew,  who, 
moreover,  had  themselves  slain  their  com 
rade  in  the  drunken  riot  and  confusion  of 
the  first  day  or  two  after  they  were  shipped. 
Looked  at  judicially,  there  appeared  to  be 
no  right  side  to  the  matter,  nor  any  right 
side  possible  in  so  thoroughly  vicious  a 
system  as  that  of  the  American  mercantile 
marine.  The  Consul  could  do  little,  except 
to  take  depositions,  hold  forth  the  greasy 
Testament  to  be  profaned  anew  with  per 
jured  kisses,  and,  in  a  few  instances  of 
murder  or  manslaughter,  carry  the  case 
before  an  English  magistrate,  who  generally 
decided  that  the  evidence  was  too  contra 
dictory  to  authorize  the  transmission  of 
the  accused  for  trial  in  America.  The 
newspapers  all  over  England  contained 
paragraphs,  inveighing  against  the  cruelties 
of  American  shipmasters.  The  British 
Parliament  took  up  the  matter  (for  nobody 
is  so  humane  as  John  Bull,  when  his  benev- 


46  OUR  OLD  HOME 

olent  propensities  are  to  be  gratified  by 
finding  fault  with  his  neighbor),  and  caused 
Lord  John  Russell  to  remonstrate  with  our 
government  on  the  outrages  for  which  it 
was  responsible  before  the  world,  and  which 
it  failed  to  prevent  or  punish.  The  Amer 
ican  Secretary  of  State,  old  General  Cass, 
responded,  with  perfectly  astounding  igno 
rance  of  the  subject,  to  the  effect  that  the 
statements  of  outrages  had  probably  been 
exaggerated,  that  the  present  laws  of  the 
United  States  were  quite  adequate  to  deal 
with  them,  and  that  the  interference  of  the 
British  Minister  was  uncalled  for. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  state  of  affairs 
was  really  very  horrible,  and  could  be  met 
by  no  laws  at  that  time  (or  I  presume  now) 
in  existence.  I  once  thought  of  writing  a 
pamphlet  on  the  subject,  but  quitted  the 
Consulate  before  finding  time  to  effect  my 
purpose ;  and  all  that  phase  of  my  life  im 
mediately  assumed  so  dream-like  a  con 
sistency  that  I  despaired  of  making  it  seem 
solid  or  tangible  to  the  public.  And  now 
it  looks  distant  and  dim,  like  troubles  of  a 
century  ago.  The  origin  of  the  evil  lay 
in  the  character  of  the  seamen,  scarcely 
any  of  whom  were  American,  but  the  off 
scourings  and  refuse  of  all  the  seaports  of 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  47 

the  world,  such  stuff  as  piracy  is  made  of, 
together  with  a  considerable  intermixture 
of  returning  emigrants,  and  a  sprinkling  of 
absolutely  kidnapped  American  citizens. 
Even  with  such  material  the  ships  were 
very  inadequately  manned.  The  shipmas 
ter  found  himself  upon  the  deep,  with  a 
vast  responsibility  of  property  and  human 
life  upon  his  hands,  and  no  means  of  salva 
tion  except  by  compelling  his  inefficient 
and  demoralized  crew  to  heavier  exertions 
than  could  reasonably  be  required  of  the 
same  number  of  able  seamen.  By  law  he 
had  been  intrusted  with  no  discretion  of 
judicious  punishment ;  he  therefore  habit 
ually  left  the  whole  matter  of  discipline 
to  his  irresponsible  mates,  men  often  of 
scarcely  a  superior  quality  to  the  crew. 
Hence  ensued  a  great  mass  of  petty  out 
rages,  unjustifiable  assaults,  shameful  in 
dignities,  and  nameless  cruelty,  demoraliz 
ing  alike  to  the  perpetrators  and  the 
sufferers ;  these  enormities  fell  into  the 
ocean  between  the  two  countries,  and 
could  be  punished  in  neither.  Many  mis 
erable  stories  come  back  upon  my  memory 
as  I  write ;  wrongs  that  were  immense, 
but  for  which  nobody  could  be  held  re 
sponsible,  and  which,  indeed,  the  closer  you 


48  OUR   OLD   HOME 

looked  into  them,  the  more  they  lost  the 
aspect  of  willful  misdoing,  and  assumed 
that  of  an  inevitable  calamity.  It  was  the 
fault  of  a  system,  the  misfortune  of  an 
individual.  Be  that  as  it  may,  however, 
there  will  be  no  possibility  of  dealing  ef 
fectually  with  these  troubles  as  long  as  we 
deem  it  inconsistent  with  our  national  dig 
nity  or  interests  to  allow  the  English  courts, 
under  such  restrictions  as  may  seem  fit,  a 
jurisdiction  over  offenses  perpetrated  on 
board  our  vessels  in  mid-ocean. 

In  such  a  life  as  this,  the  American  ship 
master  develops  himself  into  a  man  of  iron 
energies,  dauntless  courage,  and  inexhaust 
ible  resource,  at  the  expense,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  of  some  of  the  higher  and 
gentler  traits  which  might  do  him  excellent 
service  in  maintaining  his  authority.  The 
class  has  deteriorated  of  late  years  on  ac 
count  of  the  narrower  field  of  selection, 
owing  chiefly  to  the  diminution  of  that 
excellent  body  of  respectably  educated 
New  England  seamen,  from  the  flower  of 
whom  the  officers  used  to  be  recruited. 
Yet  I  found  them,  in.  many  cases,  very 
agreeable  and  intelligent  companions,  with 
less  nonsense  about  them  than  landsmen 
usually  have,  eschewers  of  fine-spun  the- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  49 

ories,  delighting  in  square  and  tangible 
ideas,  but  occasionally  infested  with  preju 
dices  that  stuck  to  their  brains  like  bar 
nacles  to  a  ship's  bottom.  I  never  could 
flatter  myself  that  I  was  a  general  favorite 
with  them.  One  or  two,  perhaps,  even 
now,  would  scarcely  meet  me  on  amicable 
terms.  Endowed  universally  with  a  great 
pertinacity  of  will,  they  especially  disliked 
the  interference  of  a  Consul  with  their  man 
agement  on  shipboard ;  notwithstanding 
which,  I  thrust  in  my  very  limited  authority 
at  every  available  opening,  and  did  the  ut 
most  that  lay  in  my  power,  though  with 
lamentably  small  effect,  towards  enforcing 
a  better  kind  of  discipline.  They  thought, 
no  doubt  (and  on  plausible  grounds  enough, 
but  scarcely  appreciating  just  that  one 
little  grain  of  hard  New  England  sense, 
oddly  thrown  in  among  the  flimsier  com 
position  of  the  Consul's  character),  that 
he,  a  landsman,  a  bookman,  and,  as  people 
said  of  him,  a  fanciful  recluse,  could  not 
possibly  understand  anything  of  the  diffi 
culties  or  the  necessities  of  a  shipmaster's 
position.  But  their  cold  regards  were 
rather  acceptable  than  otherwise,  for  it  is 
exceedingly  awkward  to  assume  a  judicial 
austerity  in  the  morning  towards  a  man 


50  OUR   OLD  HOME 

with  whom  you  have  been  hobnobbing  over 
night. 

With  the  technical  details  of  the  busi 
ness  of  that  great  Consulate  (for  great  it 
then  was,  though  now,  I  fear,  wofully  fallen 
off,  and  perhaps  never  to  be  revived  in 
anything  like  its  former  extent),  I  did  not 
much  interfere.  They  could  safely  be  left 
to  the  treatment  of  two  as  faithful,  upright, 
and  competent  subordinates,  both  English 
men,  as  ever  a  man  was  fortunate  enough 
to  meet  with,  in  a  line  of  life  altogether 
new  and  strange  to  him.  I  had  come  over 
with  instructions  to  supply  both  their 
places  with  Americans,  but,  possessing  a 
happy  faculty  of  knowing  my  own  interest 
and  the  public's,  I  quietly  kept  hold  of 
them,  being  little  inclined  to  open  the  con 
sular  doors  to  a  spy  of  the  State  Depart 
ment  or  an  intriguer  for  my  own  office. 
The  venerable  Vice-Consul,  Mr.  Pearce, 
had  witnessed  the  successive  arrivals  of  a 
score  of  newly  appointed  Consuls,  shadowy 
and  short-lived  dignitaries,  and  carried  his 
reminiscences  back  to  the  epoch  of  Consul 
Maury,  who  was  appointed  by  Washington, 
and  has  acquired  almost  the  grandeur  of  a 
mythical  personage  in  the  annals  of  the 
Consulate.  The  principal  clerk,  Mr.  Wild- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  51 

ing,  who  has  since  succeeded  to  the  Vice- 
Consulship,  was  a  man  of  English  integ 
rity,  —  not  that  the  English  are  more  hon 
est  than  ourselves,  but  only  there  is  a 
certain  sturdy  reliableness  common  among 
them,  which  we  do  not  quite  so  invariably 
manifest  in  just  these  subordinate  posi 
tions,  —  of  English  integrity,  combined 
with  American  acuteness  of  intellect,  quick- 
wittedness,  and  diversity  of  talent.  It 
seemed  an  immense  pity  that  he  should 
wear  out  his  life  at  a  desk,  without  a  step 
in  advance  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
when,  had  it  been  his  luck  to  be  born  on 
our  side  of  the  water,  his  bright  faculties 
and  clear  probity  would  have  insured  him 
eminent  success  in  whatever  path  he  might 
adopt.  Meanwhile,  it  would  have  been  a 
sore  mischance  to  me,  had  any  better 
fortune  on  his  part  deprived  me  of  Mr. 
Wilding's  services. 

A  fair  amount  of  common  sense,  some 
acquaintance  with  the  United  States  Stat 
utes,  an  insight  into  character,  a  tact  of 
management,  a  general  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  a  reasonable  but  not  too  invet- 
erately  decided  preference  for  his  own  will 
and  judgment  over  those  of  interested 
people,  —  these  natural  attributes  and 


52  OUR   OLD   HOME 

moderate  acquirements  will  enable  a  Consul 
to  perform  many  of  his  duties  respectably, 
but  not  to  dispense  with  a  great  variety  of 
other  qualifications,  only  attainable  by  long 
experience.  Yet,  I  think,  few  Consuls  are 
so  well  accomplished.  An  appointment  of 
whatever  grade,  in  the  diplomatic  or  consu 
lar  service  of  America,  is  too  often  what 
the  English  call  a  "job ; "  that  is  to  say,  it 
is  made  on  private  and  personal  grounds, 
without  a  paramount  eye  to  the  public 
good  or  the  gentleman's  especial  fitness 
for  the  position.  It  is  not  too  much  to 
say  (of  course  allowing  for  a  brilliant  ex 
ception  here  and  there),  that  an  American 
never  is  thoroughly  qualified  for  a  foreign 
post,  nor  has  time  to  make  himself  so,  be 
fore  the  revolution  of  the  political  wheel 
discards  him  from  his  office.  Our  country 
wrongs  itself  by  permitting  such  a  system 
of  unsuitable  appointments,  and,  still  more, 
of  removals  for  no  cause,  just  when  the 
incumbent  might  be  beginning  to  ripen 
into  usefulness.  Mere  ignorance  of  official 
detail  is  of  comparatively  small  moment ; 
though  it  is  considered  indispensable,  I  pre 
sume,  that  a  man  in  any  private  capacity 
shall  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
machinery  and  operation  of  his  business, 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  53 

and  shall  not  necessarily  lose  his  position 
on  having  attained  such  knowledge.  But 
there  are  so  many  more  important  things 
to  be  thought  of,  in  the  qualifications  of 
a  foreign  resident,  that  his  technical  dex 
terity  or  clumsiness  is  hardly  worth  men 
tioning. 

One  great  part  of  a  Consul's  duty,  for 
example,  should  consist  in  building  up  for 
himself  a  recognized  position  in  the  society 
where  he  resides,  so  that  his  local  influence 
might  be  felt  in  behalf  of  his  own  country, 
and,  so  far  as  they  are  compatible  (as  they 
generally  are  to  the  utmost  extent),  for  the 
interests  of  both  nations.  The  foreign 
city  should  know  that  it  has  a  permanent 
inhabitant  and  a  hearty  well-wisher  in  him. 
There  are  many  conjunctures  (and  one  of 
them  is  now  upon  us)  where  a  long-estab 
lished,  honored,  and  trusted  American  citi 
zen,  holding  a  public  position  under  our 
government  in  such  a  town  as  Liverpool, 
might  go  far  towards  swaying  and  direct 
ing  the  sympathies  of  the  inhabitants.  He 
might  throw  his  own  weight  into  the  bal 
ance  against  mischief-makers ;  he  might 
have  set  his  foot  on  the  first  little  spark  of 
malignant  purpose,  which  the  next  wind 
may  blow  into  a  national  war.  But  we 


54  OUR   OLD   HOME 

willfully  give  up  all  advantages  of  this  kind. 
The  position  is  totally  beyond  the  attain 
ment  of  an  American ;  there  to-day,  bris 
tling  all  over  with  the  porcupine  quills  of 
our  Republic,  and  gone  to-morrow,  just  as 
he  is  becoming  sensible  of  the  broader  and 
more  generous  patriotism  which  might  al 
most  amalgamate  with  that  of  England, 
without  losing  an  atom  of  its  native  force 
and  flavor.  In  the  changes  that  appear  to 
await  us,  and  some  of  which,  at  least,  can 
hardly  fail  to  be  for  good,  let  us  hope  for  a 
reform  in  this  matter. 

For  myself,  as  the  gentle  reader  would 
spare  me  the  trouble  of  saying,  I  was  not 
at  all  the  kind  of  man  to  grow  into  such 
an  ideal  Consul  as  I  have  here  suggested. 
I  never  in  my  life  desired  to  be  burdened 
with  public  influence.  I  disliked  my  office 
from  the  first,  and  never  came  into  any 
good  accordance  with  it.  Its  dignity,  so 
far  as  it  had  any,  was  an  encumbrance ; 
the  attentions  it  drew  upon  me  (such  as  in 
vitations  to  Mayors'  banquets  and  public 
celebrations  of  all  kinds,  where,  to  my  hor 
ror,  I  found  myself  expected  to  stand  up 
and  speak)  were — as  I  may  say  without 
incivility  or  ingratitude,  because  there  is 
nothing  personal  in  that  sort  of  hospital- 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  55 

ity  —  a  bore.  The  official  business  was 
irksome,  and  often  painful.  There  was 
nothing  pleasant  about  the  whole  affair, 
except  the  emoluments ; l  and  even  those, 
never  too  bountifully  reaped,  were  dimin 
ished  by  more  than  half  in  the  second  or 
third  year  of  my  incumbency.  All  this 
being  true,  I  was  quite  prepared,  in  ad 
vance  of  the  inauguration  of  Mr.  Buchan 
an,  to  send  in  my  resignation.  When  my 
successor  arrived,  I  drew  the  long,  delight 
ful  breath  which  first  made  me  thoroughly 
sensible  what  an  unnatural  life  I  had  been 
leading,  and  compelled  me  to  admire  my 
self  for  having  battled  with  it  so  sturdily.2 

1The  pleasantest  incident  of  the  morning  is  when  Mr. 
Pearce  (the  Vice-Consul)  makes  his  appearance  with 
the  account  books,  containing  the  receipts  and  expendi 
tures  of  the  preceding  day,  and  deposits  on  my  desk  a 
little  rouleau  of  the  Queen's  coin,  wrapped  up  in  a  piece 
of  paper.  This  morning  there  were  eight  sovereigns, 
four  half-crowns,  and  a  shilling, — a  pretty  fair  day's 
work,  though  not  more  than  the  average  ought  to  be. 
—  I.  415. 

2 1  am  sick-  to  death  of  my  office,  —  brutal  captains 
and  brutal  sailors ;  continual  complaints  of  mutual 
wrong  which  I  have  no  power  to  set  right,  and  which, 
indeed,  seem  to  have  no  right  on  either  side ;  calls  of 
idleness  or  ceremony  from  my  traveling  countrymen, 
who  seldom  know  what  they  are  in  search  of  at  the 
commencement  of  their  tour,  and  never  have  attained 
any  desirable  end  at  the  close  of  it;  beggars,  cheats, 


56  OUR   OLD  HOME 

The  new-comer  proved  to  be  a  very  genial 
and  agreeable  gentleman,  an  F.  F.  V.,  and, 
as  he  pleasantly  acknowledged,  a  Southern 
Fire-Eater,  —  an  announcement  to  which 
I  responded,  with  similar  good-humor  and 
self-complacency,  by  parading  my  descent 
from  an  ancient  line  of  Massachusetts  Pu 
ritans.  Since  our  brief  acquaintanceship, 
my  fire-eating  friend  has  had  ample  oppor 
tunities  to  banquet  on  his  favorite  diet, 
hot  and  hot,  in  the  Confederate  service. 
For  myself,  as  soon  as  I  was  out  of  office, 
the  retrospect  began  to  look  unreal.  I 
could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  I,  —  that 
figure  whom  they  called  a  Consul,  —  but  a 
sort  of  Double  Ganger,  who  had  been  per 
mitted  to  assume  my  aspect,  under  which 
he  went  through  his  shadowy  duties  with  a 
tolerable  show  of  efficiency,  while  my  real 
self  had  lain,  as  regarded  my  proper  mode 
of  being  and  acting,  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation. 

The  same  sense  of  illusion  still  pursues 
me.  There  is  some  mistake  in  this  matter. 
I  have  been  writing  about  another  man's 
consular  experiences,  with  which,  through 

simpletons,  unfortunates,  so  mixed  up  that  it  is  impos 
sible  to  distinguish  one  from  another,  and  so,  in  self- 
defense,  the  Consul  distrusts  them  all.  —  II.  69. 


CONSULAR   EXPERIENCES  57 

some  mysterious  medium  of  transmitted 
ideas,  I  find  myself  intimately  acquainted, 
but  in  which  I  cannot  possibly  have  had  a 
personal  interest.  Is  it  not  a  dream  alto 
gether  ?  The  figure  of  that  poor  Doctor 
of  Divinity  looks  wonderfully  lifelike ;  so 
do  those  of  the  Oriental  adventurer  with 
the  visionary  coronet  above  his  brow,  and 
the  moonstruck  visitor  of  the  Queen,  and 
the  poor  old  wanderer,  seeking  his  native 
country  through  English  highways  and  by 
ways  for  almost  thirty  years  ;  and  so  would 
a  hundred  others  that  I  might  summon  up 
with  similar  distinctness.  But  were  they 
more  than  shadows  ?  Surely,  I  think  not. 
Nor  are  these  present  pages  a  bit  of  in 
trusive  autobiography.  Let  not  the  reader 
wrong  me  by  supposing  it.  I  never  should 
have  written  with  half  such  unreserve,  had 
it  been  a  portion  of  this  life  congenial  with 
my  nature,  which  I  am  living  now,  instead 
of  a  series  of  incidents  and  characters  en 
tirely  apart  from  my  own  concerns,  and  on 
which  the  qualities  personally  proper  to 
me  could  have  had  no  bearing.  Almost 
the  only  real  incidents,  as  I  see  them  now, 
were  the  visits  of  a  young  English  friend, 
a  scholar  and  a  literary  amateur,  between 
whom  and  myself  there  sprung  up  an 


58  OURt  OLD  HOME 

affectionate,  and,  I  trust,  not  transitory  re 
gard.  He  used  to  come  and  sit  or  stand 
by  my  fireside,  talking  vivaciously  and  elo 
quently  with  me  about  literature  and  life, 
his  own  national  characteristics  and  mine, 
with  such  kindly  endurance  of  the  many 
rough  republicanisms  wherewith  I  assailed 
him,  and  such  frank  and  amiable  assertion 
of  all  sorts  of  English  prejudices  and  mis 
takes,  that  I  understood  his  countrymen 
infinitely  the  better  for  him,  and  was  almost 
prepared  to  love  the  intensest  Englishman 
of  them  all,  for  his  sake.  It  would  gratify 
my  cherished  remembrance  of  this  dear 
friend,  if  I  could  manage,  without  offending 
him,  or  letting  the  public  know  it,  to  intro 
duce  his  name  upon  my  page.  Bright  was 
the  illumination  of  my  dusky  little  apart 
ment,  as  often  as  he  made  his  appearance 
there  ! 

The  English  sketches  which  I  have  been 
offering  to  the  public  comprise  a  few  of 
the  more  external,  and  therefore  more  read 
ily  manageable,  things  that  I  took  note  of, 
in  many  escapes  from  the  imprisonment  of 
my  consular  servitude.  Liverpool,  though 
not  very  delightful  as  a  place  of  residence, 
is  a  most  convenient  and  admirable  point 
to  get  away  from.  London  is  only  five 


CONSULAR  EXPERIENCES  59 

hours  off  by  the  fast  train.  Chester,  the 
most  curious  town  in  England,  with  its 
encompassing"  wall,  its  ancient  rows,  and 
its  venerable  cathedral,  is  close  at  hand. 
North  Wales,  with  all  its  hills  and  ponds, 
its  noble  sea-scenery,  its  multitude  of  gray 
castles  and  strange  old  villages,  may  be 
glanced  at  in  a  summer  day  or  two.  The 
lakes  and  mountains  of  Cumberland  and 
Westmoreland  may  be  reached  before  din 
ner-time.  The  haunted  and  legendary  Isle 
of  Man,  a  little  kingdom  by  itself,  lies 
within  the  scope  of  an  afternoon's  voyage. 
Edinburgh  or  Glasgow  are  attainable  over 
night,  and  Loch  Lomond  betimes  in  the 
morning.  Visiting  these  famous  localities, 
and  a  great  many  others,  I  hope  that  I  do 
not  compromise  my  American  patriotism 
by  acknowledging  that  I  was  often  conscious 
of  a  fervent  hereditary  attachment  to  the 
native  soil  of  our  forefathers,  and  felt  it  to 
be  our  own  Old  Home. 


II. 

LEAMINGTON    SPA 

IN  the  course  of  several  visits  and  stays 
of  considerable  length  we  acquired  a  home 
like  feeling  towards  Leamington,  and  came 
back  thither  again  and  again,  chiefly  be 
cause  we  had  been  there  before.  Wander 
ing  and  wayside  people,  such  as  we  had 
long  since  become,  retain  a  few  of  the  in 
stincts  that  belong  to  a  more  settled  way 
of  life,  and  often  prefer  familiar  and  com 
monplace  objects  (for  the  very  reason  that 
they  are  so)  to  the  dreary  strangeness  of 
scenes  that  might  be  thought  much  better 
worth  the  seeing.  There  is  a  small  nest 
of  a  place  in  Leamington  —  at  No.  10 
Lansdowne  Circus  —  upon  which,  to  this 
day,  my  reminiscences  are  apt  to  settle  as 
one  of  the  cosiest  nooks  in  England  or  in 
the  world ;  not  that  it  had  any  special 
charm  of  its  own,  but  only  that  we  stayed 
long  enough  to  know  it  well,  and  even  to 
grow  a  little  tired  of  it.  In  my  opinion, 
the  very  tediousness  of  home  and  friends 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  6 1 

makes  a  part  of  what  we  love  them  for ; 
if  it  be  not  mixed  in  sufficiently  with  the 
other  elements  of  life,  there  may  be  mad 
enjoyment,  but  no  happiness. 

The  modest  abode  to  which  I  have  alluded 
forms  one  of  a  circular  range  of  pretty, 
moderate-sized,  two-story  houses,  all  built 
on  nearly  the  same  plan,  and  each  provided 
with  its  little  grass-plot,  its  flowers,  its 
tufts  of  box  trimmed  into  globes  and  other 
fantastic  shapes,  and  its  verdant  hedges 
shutting  the  house  in  from  the  common 
drive,  and  dividing  it  from  its  equally  cozy 
neighbors.  Coming  out  of  the  door,  and 
taking  a  turn  round  the  circle  of  sister- 
dwellings,  it  is  difficult  to  find  your  way 
back  by  any  distinguishing  individuality  of 
your  own  habitation.  In  the  centre  of  the 
Circus  is  a  space  fenced  in  with  iron  rail 
ing,  a  small  play-place  and  sylvan  retreat 
for  the  children  of  the  precinct,  permeated 
by  brief  paths  through  the  fresh  English 
grass,  and  shadowed  by  various  shrubbery  ; 
amid  which,  if  you  like,  you  may  fancy 
yourself  in  a  deep  seclusion,  though  prob 
ably  the  mark  of  eye-shot  from  the  windows 
of  all  the  surrounding  houses.  But,  in 
truth,  with  regard  to  the  rest  of  the  town 
and  the  world  at  large,  an  abode  here  is  a 


62  OUR   OLD  HOME 

genuine  seclusion  ;  for  the  ordinary  stream 
of  life  does  not  run  through  this  little, 
quiet  pool,  and  few  or  none  of  the  inhabi 
tants  seem  to  be  troubled  with  any  business 
or  outside  activities.  I  used  to  set  them 
down  as  half-pay  officers,  dowagers  of  nar 
row  income,  elderly  maideri  ladies,  and 
other  people  of  respectability,  but  small 
account,  such  as  hang  on  the  world's  skirts, 
rather  than  actually  belong  to  it.  The 
quiet  of  the  place  was  seldom  disturbed, 
except  by  the  grocer  and  butcher,  who 
came  to  receive  orders ;  or  by  the  cabs, 
hackney-coaches,  and  Bath-chairs,  in  which 
the  ladies  took  an  infrequent  airing ;  or 
the  livery-steed  which  the  retired  captain 
sometimes  bestrode  for  a  morning  ride  ;  or 
by  the  red-coated  postman  who  went  his 
rounds  twice  a  day  to  deliver  letters,  and 
again  in  the  evening,  ringing  a  hand-bell, 
to  take  letters  for  the  mail.  In  merely 
mentioning  these  slight  interruptions  of 
its  sluggish  stillness,  I  seem  to  myself  to 
disturb  too  much  the  atmosphere  of  quiet 
that  brooded  over  the  spot ;  whereas  its 
impression  upon  me  was,  that  the  world 
had  never  found  the  way  hither,  or  had 
forgotten  it,  and  that  the  fortunate  inhabi 
tants  were  the  only  ones  who  possessed 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  63 

the  spell-word  of  admittance.  Nothing 
could  have  suited  me  better  at  the  time ; 
for  I  had  been  holding  a  position  of  public 
servitude,  which  imposed  upon  me  (among 
a  great  many  lighter  duties)  the  ponderous 
necessity  of  being  universally  civil  and 
sociable. 

Nevertheless,  if  a  man  were  seeking  the 
bustle  of  society,  he  might  find  it  more 
readily  in  Leamington  than  in  most  other 
English  towns.  It  is  a  permanent  water 
ing-place,  a  sort  of  institution  to  which  I 
do  not  know  any  close  parallel  in  American 
life :  for  such  places  as  Saratoga  bloom 
only  for  the  summer  season,  and  offer  a 
thousand  dissimilitudes  even  then ;  while 
Leamington 'seems  to  be  always  in  flower, 
and  serves  as  a  home  to  the  homeless  all 
the  year  round.  Its  original  nucleus,  the 
plausible  excuse  for  the  town's  coming  into 
prosperous  existence,  lies  in  the  fiction  of, 
a  chalybeate  well,  which,  indeed,  is  so  far 
a  reality  that  out  of  its  magical  depths 
have  gushed  streets,  groves,  gardens,  man 
sions,  shops,  and  churches,  and  spread 
themselves  along  the  banks  of  the  little 
river  Learn.  This  miracle  accomplished, 
the  beneficent  fountain  has  retired  beneath 
a  pump-room,  and  appears  to  have  given 


64  OUR   OLD  HOME 

up  all  pretensions  to  the  remedial  virtues 
formerly  attributed  to  it.  I  know  not 
whether  its  waters  are  ever  tasted  nowa 
days  ;  but  not  the  less  does  Leamington  — 
in  pleasant  Warwickshire,  at  the  very  mid 
most  point  of  England,  in  a  good  hunting 
neighborhood,  and  surrounded  by  country- 
seats  and  castles  —  continue  to  be  a  resort 
of  transient  visitors,  and  the  more  perma 
nent  abode  of  a  class  of  genteel,  unoc 
cupied,  well-to-do,  but  not  very  wealthy 
people,  such  as  are  hardly  known  among 
ourselves.  Persons  who  have  no  country- 
houses,  and  whose  fortunes  are  inadequate 
to  a  London  expenditure,  find  here,  I  sup 
pose,  a  sort  of  town  and  country  life  in  one. 
In  its  present  aspect  the  town  is  of  no 
great  age.  In  contrast  with  the  antiquity 
of  many  places  in  its  neighborhood,  it  has 
a  bright,  new  face,  and  seems  almost  to 
smile  even  amid  the  sombreness  of  an 
English  autumn.  Nevertheless,  it  is  hun 
dreds  upon  hundreds  of  years  old,  if  we 
reckon  up  that  sleepy  lapse  of  time  during 
which  it  existed  as  a  small  village  of  thatched 
houses,  clustered  round  a  priory ;  and  it 
would  still  have  been  precisely  such  a  rural 
village,  but  for  a  certain  Dr.  Jephson,  who 
lived  within  the  memory  of  man,  and  who 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  65 

found  out  the  magic  well,  and  foresaw  what 
fairy  wealth  might  be  made  to  flow  from  it. 
A  public  garden  has  been  laid  out  along 
the  margin  of  the  Leam,  and  called  the 
Jephson  Garden,  in  honor  of  him  who  cre 
ated  the  prosperity  of  his  native  spot.  A 
little  way  within  the  garden-gate  there  is 
a  circular  temple  of  Grecian  architecture, 
beneath  the  dome  of  which  stands  a  marble 
statue  of  the  good  doctor,  very  well  exe 
cuted,  and  representing  him  with  a  face  of 
fussy  activity  and  benevolence  :  just  the 
kind  of  man,  if  luck  favored  him,  to  build 
up  the  fortunes  of  those  about  him,  or, 
quite  as  probably,  to  blight  his  whole 
neighborhood  by  some  disastrous  specula 
tion. 

The  Jephson  Garden  is  very  beautiful, 
like  most  other  English  pleasure-grounds ; 
for,  aided  by  their  moist  climate  and  not 
too  fervid  sun,  the  landscape-gardeners  ex 
cel  in  converting  flat  or  tame  surfaces  into 
attractive  scenery,  chiefly  through  the 
skillful  arrangement  of  trees  and  shrubbery. 
An  Englishman  aims  at  this  effect  even  in 
the  little  patches  under  the  windows  of  a 
suburban  villa  and  achieves  it  on  a  larger 
scale  in  a  tract  of  many  acres.  The  Garden 
is  shadowed  with  trees  of  a  fine  growth, 


66  OUR   OLD  HOME 

standing  alone,  or  in  dusky  groves  and 
dense  entanglements,  pervaded  by  wood 
land  paths  ;  and  emerging  from  these  pleas 
ant  glooms,  we  come  upon  a  breadth  of 
sunshine,  where  the  greensward  —  so  vividly 
green  that  it  has  a  kind  of  lustre  in  it  — 
is  spotted  with  beds  of  gem-like  flowers. 
Rustic  chairs  and  benches  are  scattered 
about,  some  of  them  ponderously  fashioned 
out  of  the  stumps  of  obtruncated  trees,  and 
others  more  artfully  made  with  intertwining 
branches,  or  perhaps  an  imitation  of  such 
frail  handiwork  in  iron.  In  a  central  part 
of  the  Garden  is  an  archery-ground,  where 
laughing  maidens  practice  at  the  butts, 
generally  missing  their  ostensible  mark, 
but,  by  the  mere  grace  of  their  action, 
sending  an  unseen  shaft  into  some  young 
man's  heart.  There  is  space,  moreover, 
within  these  precincts,  for  an  artificial  lake, 
with  a  little  green  island  in  the  midst  of  it ; 
both  lake  and  island  being  the  haunt  of 
swans,  whose  aspect  and  movement  in  the 
water  are  most  beautiful  and  stately,  — 
most  infirm,  disjointed,  and  decrepit,  when, 
unadvisedly,  they  see  fit  to  emerge,  and 
try  to  walk  upon  dry  land.  In  the  latter 
case,  they  look  like  a  breed  of  uncommonly 
ill-contrived  geese  ;  and  I  record  the  matter 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  67 

here  for  the  sake  of  the  moral,  —  that  we 
should  never  pass  judgment  on  the  merits 
of  any  person  or  thing,  unless  we  behold 
them  in  the  sphere  and  circumstances  to 
which  they  are  specially  adapted.  In  still 
another  part  of  the  Garden  there  is  a  laby 
rinthine  maze  formed  of  an  intricacy  of 
hedge-bordered  walks,  involving  himself  in 
which,  a  man  might  wander  for  hours  in 
extricably  within  a  circuit  of  only  a  few 
yards.  It  seemed  to  me  a  sad  emblem  of 
the  mental  and  moral  perplexities  in  which 
we  sometimes  go  astray,  petty  in  scope, 
yet  large  enough  to  entangle  a  lifetime, 
and  bewilder  us  with  a  weary  movement, 
but  no  genuine  progress. 

The  Learn,  —  the  "high  complexioned 
Learn,  "  as  Drayton  calls  it,  —  after  drows 
ing  across  the  principal  street  of  the  town, 
beneath  a  handsome  bridge,  skirts  along 
the  margin  of  the  Garden  without  any  per 
ceptible  flow.  Heretofore  I  had  fancied 
the  Concord  the  laziest  river  in  the  world, 
but  now  assign  that  amiable  distinction  to 
the  little  English  stream.  Its  water  is  by 
no  means  transparent,  but  has  a  greenish, 
goose-puddly  hue,  which,  however,  accords 
well  with  the  other  coloring  and  character 
istics  of  the  scene,  and  is  disagreeable 


68  OUR   OLD  HOME 

neither  to  sight  nor  smell.  Certainly,  this 
river  is  a  perfect  feature  of  that  gentle 
picturesqueness  in  which  England  is  so 
rich,  sleeping,  as  it  does,  beneath  a  margin 
of  willows  that  droop  into  its  bosom,  and 
other  trees,  of  deeper  verdure  than  our  own 
country  can  boast,  inclining  lovingly  over 
it.  On  the  Garden-side  it  is  bordered  by 
a  shadowy,  secluded  grove,  with  winding 
paths  among  its  boskiness,  affording  many 
a  peep  at  the  river's  imperceptible  lapse 
and  tranquil  gleam  ;  and  on  the  opposite 
shore  stands  the  priory-church,  with  its 
churchyard  full  of  shrubbery  and  tomb 
stones. 

The  business  portion  of  the  town  clus 
ters  about  the  banks  of  the  Learn,  and  is 
naturally  densest  around  the  well  to  which 
the  modern  settlement  owes  its  existence. 
Here  are  the  commercial  inns,  the  post- 
office,  the  furniture-dealers,  the  ironmon 
gers,  and  all  the  heavy  and  homely  estab 
lishments  that  connect  themselves  even 
with  the  airiest  modes  of  human  life ; 
while  upward  from  the  river,  by  a  long  and 
gentle  ascent,  rises  the  principal  street, 
which  is  very  bright  and  cheerful  in  its 
physiognomy,  and  adorned  with  shop-fronts 
almost  as  splendid  as  those  of  London, 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  69 

though  on  a  diminutive  scale.  There  are 
likewise  side-streets  and  cross-streets,  many 
of  which  are  bordered  with  the  beautiful 
Warwickshire  elm,  a  most  unusual  kind  of 
adornment  for  an  English  town  ;  and  spa 
cious  avenues,  wide  enough  to  afford  room 
for  stately  groves,  with  foot-paths  running 
beneath  the  lofty  shade,  and  rooks  cawing 
and  chattering  so  high  in  the  tree-tops  that 
their  voices  get  musical  before  reaching 
the  earth.  The  houses  are  mostly  built  in 
blocks  and  ranges,  in  which  every  separate 
tenement  is  a  repetition  of  its  fellow, 
though  the  architecture  of  the  different 
ranges  is  sufficiently  various.  Some  of 
them  are  almost  palatial  in  size  and  sump- 
tuousness  of  arrangement.  Then,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  there  are  detached 
villas,  inclosed  within  that  separate  domain 
of  high  stone  fence  and  embowered  shrub 
bery  which  an  Englishman  so  loves  to 
build  and  plant  around  his  abode,  present 
ing  to  the  public  only  an  iron  gate,  with  a 
graveled  carriage-drive  winding  away  to 
wards  the  half-hidden  mansion.  Whether 
in  street  or  suburb,  Leamington  may  fairly 
be  called  beautiful,  and,  at  some  points, 
magnificent :  but  by  and  by  you  become 
doubtfully  suspicious  of  a  somewhat  unreal 


70  OUR   OLD   HOME 

finery :  it  is  pretentious,  though  not  glar 
ingly  so ;  it  has  been  built  with  malice 
aforethought,  as  a  place  of  gentility  and 
enjoyment.  Moreover,  splendid  as  the 
houses  look,  and  comfortable  as  they  often 
are,  there  is  a  nameless  something  about 
them,  betokening  that  they  have  not  grown 
out  of  human  hearts,  but  are  the  creations 
of  a  skillfully  applied  human  intellect :  no 
man  has  reared  any  one  of  them,  whether 
stately  or  humble,  to  be  his  lifelong  resi 
dence,  wherein  to  bring  up  his  children, 
who  are  to  inherit  it  as  a  home.  They  are 
nicely  contrived  lodging-houses,  one  and 
all,  —  the  best  as  well  as  the  shabbiest  of 
them,  — and  therefore  inevitably  lack  some 
nameless  property  that  a  home  should 
have.  This  was  the  case  with  our  own 
little  snuggery  in  Lansdowne  Circus,  as 
with  all  the  rest ;  it  had  not  grown  out  of 
anybody's  individual  need,  but  was  built  to 
let  or  sell,  and  was  therefore  like  a  ready- 
made  garment,  —  a  tolerable  fit,  but  only 
tolerable.1 

1  This  English  custom  of  lodgings,  of  which  we  had 
some  experience  at  Rhyl  last  year,  has  its  advantages ; 
but  is  rather  uncomfortable  for  strangers,  who,  in  first 
settling  themselves  down,  find  that  they  must  undertake 
all  the  responsibility  of  housekeeping  at  an  instant's 
warning,  and  cannot  get  even  a  cup  of  tea  till  they  have 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  7 1 

All  these  blocks,  ranges,  and  detached 
villas  are  adorned  with  the  finest  and  most 
aristocratic  names  that  I  have  found  any 
where  in  England,  except  perhaps,  in  Bath, 
which  is  the  great  metropolis  of  that 
second-class  gentility  with  which  watering- 
places  are  chiefly  populated.  Lansdowne 
Crescent,  Lansdowne  Circus,  Lansdowne 
Terrace,  Regent  Street,  Warwick  Street, 
Clarendon  Street,  the  Upper  and  Lower 
Parade  :  such  are  a  few  of  the  designations. 
Parade,  indeed,  is  a  well-chosen  name  for 
the  principal  street,  along  which  the  popu 
lation  of  the  idle  town  draws  itself  out  for 
daily  review  and  display.  I  only  wish  that 
my  descriptive  powers  would  enable  me  to 
throw  off  a  picture  of  the  scene  at  a  sunny 
noontide,  individualizing  each  character 
with  a  touch ;  the  great  people  alighting 
from  their  carriages  at  the  principal  shop- 
doors  ;  the  elderly  ladies  and  infirm  Indian 

made  arrangements  with  the  grocer.  Soon,  however, 
there  comes  a  sense  of  being  at  home,  and  by  our  exclu 
sive  selves,  which  never  can  be  attained  at  hotels  nor 
boarding-houses.  Our  house  is  well  situated  and  re 
spectably  furnished,  with  the  dinginess,  however,  which 
is  inseparable  from  lodging-houses,  —  as  if  others  had 
used  these  things  before  and  would  use  them  again 
after  we  had  gone,  —  a  well-enough  adaptation,  but  a 
lack  of  peculiar  appropriateness ;  and  I  think  one  puts 
off  real  enjoyment  from  a  sense  of  not  being  truly  fitted. 
-I.58r. 


72  OUR   OLD  HOME 

officers  drawn  along  in  Bath-chairs ;  the 
comely,  rather  than  pretty,  English  girls, 
with  their  deep,  healthy  bloom,  which  an 
American  taste  is  apt  to  deem  fitter  for  a 
milkmaid  than  for  a  lady ;  the  mustached 
gentlemen  with  frogged  surtouts  and  a  mil 
itary  air ;  the  nursemaids  and  chubby  chil 
dren,  but  no  chubbier  than  our  own,  and 
scampering  on  slenderer  legs  ;  the  sturdy 
figure  of  John  Bull  in  all  varieties  and  of 
all  ages,  but  ever  with  the  stamp  of  authen 
ticity  somewhere  about  him. 

To  say  the  truth,  I  have  been  holding 
the  pen  over  my  paper,  purposing  to  write 
a  descriptive  paragraph  or  two  about  the 
throng  on  the  principal  Parade  of  Leam 
ington,  so  arranging  it  as  to  present  a 
sketch  of  the  British  out-of-door  aspect  on 
a  morning  walk  of  gentility ;  but  I  find  no 
personages  quite  sufficiently  distinct  and 
individual  in  my  memory  to  supply  the 
materials  of  such  a  panorama.  Oddly 
enough,  the  only  figure  that  comes  fairly 
forth  to  my  mind's  eye  is  that  of  a  dow 
ager,  one  of  hundreds  whom  I  used  to 
marvel  at,  all  over  England,  but  who  have 
scarcely  a  representative  among  our  own 
ladies  of  autumnal  life,  so  thin,  careworn, 
and  frail,  as  age  usually  makes  the  latter. 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  73 

I  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  the  tenacity 
with  which  English  ladies  retain  their  per 
sonal  beauty  to  a  late  period  of  life ;  but 
(not  to  suggest  that  an  American  eye 
needs  use  and  cultivation  before  it  can 
quite  appreciate  the  charm  of  English 
beauty  at  any  age)  it  strikes  me  that  an 
English  lady  of  fifty  is  apt  to  become  a 
creature  less  refined  and  delicate,  so  far  as 
her  physique  goes,  than  anything  that  we 
Western  people  class  under  the  name  of 
woman.  She  has  an  awful  ponderosity  of 
frame,  not  pulpy,  like  the  looser  develop 
ment  of  our  few  fat  women,  but  massive 
with  solid  beef  and  streaky  tallow  :  so  that 
(though  struggling  manfully  against  the 
idea)  you  inevitably  think  of  her  as  made 
up  of  steaks  and  sirloins.  When  she 
walks,  her  advance  is  elephantine.  When 
she  sits  down,  it  is  on  a  great  round  space 
of  her  Maker's  footstool,  where  she  looks 
as  if  nothing  could  ever  move  her.  She 
imposes  awe  and  respect  by  the  muchness 
of  her  personality,  to  such  a  degree  that 
you  probably  credit  her  with  far  greater 
moral  and  intellectual  force  than  she  can 
fairly  claim.  Her  visage  is 'usually  grim 
and  stern,  seldom  positively  forbidding,  yet 
calmly  terrible,  not  merely  by  its  breadth 


74  OUR   OLD  HOME 

and  weight  of  feature,  but  because  it 
seems  to  express  so  much  well-founded 
self-reliance,  such  acquaintance  with  the 
world,  its  toils,  troubles,  and  dangers,  and 
such  sturdy  capacity  for  trampling  down 
a  foe.  Without  anything  positively  sa 
lient,  or  actively  offensive,  or,  indeed,  un 
justly  formidable  to  her  neighbors,  she  has 
the  effect  of  a  seventy-four  gun-ship  in 
time  of  peace ;  for,  while  you  assure  your 
self  that  there  is  no  real  danger,  you  can 
not  help  thinking  how  tremendous  would 
be  her  onset  if  pugnaciously  inclined,  and 
how  futile  the  effort  to  inflict  any  counter- 
injury.  She  certainly  looks  ten-fold  — 
nay,  a  hundred-fold  —  better  able  to  take 
care  of  herself  than  our  slender  -  framed 
and  haggard  womankind ;  but  I  have  not 
found  reason  to  suppose  that  the  English 
dowager  of  fifty  has  actually  greater  cour 
age,  fortitude,  and  strength  of  character 
than  our  women  of  similar  age,  or  even 
a  tougher  physical  endurance  than  they. 
Morally,  she  is  strong,  I  suspect,  only  in 
society,  and  in  the  common  routine  of  so 
cial  affairs,  and  would  be  found  powerless 
and  timid  in*  any  exceptional  strait  that 
might  call  for  energy  outside  of  the  con 
ventionalities  amid  which  she  has  grown 

up! 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  75 

You  can  meet  this  figure  in  the  street, 
and  live,  and  even  smile  at  the  recollection. 
But  conceive  of  her  in  a  ball-room,  with 
the  bare,  brawny  arms  that  she  invariably 
displays  there,  and  all  the  other  corre 
sponding  development,  such  as  is  beautiful 
in  the  maiden  blossom,  but  a  spectacle  to 
howl  at  in  such  an  over-blown  cabbage-rose 
as  this. 

Yet,  somewhere  in  this  enormous  bulk 
there  must  be  hidden  the  modest,  slender, 
violet-nature  of  a  girl,  whom  an  alien  mass 
of  earthliness  has  unkindly  overgrown ;  for 
an  English  maiden  in  her  teens,  though 
very  seldom  so  pretty  as  our  own  damsels, 
possesses,  to  say  the  truth,  a  certain  charm 
of  half -blossom,  and  delicately  folded  leaves, 
and  tender  womanhood  shielded  by  maiden 
ly  reserves,  with  which,  somehow  or  other, 
our  American  girls  often  fail  to  adorn  them 
selves  during  an  appreciable  moment.  It 
is  a  pity  that  the  English  violet  should 
grow  into  such  an  outrageously  developed 
peony  as  I  have  attempted  to  describe.  I 
wonder  whether  a  middle-aged  husband 
ought  to  be  considered  as  legally  married 
to  all  the  accretions  that  have  overgrown 
the  slenderness  of  his  bride,  since  he  led 
her  to  the  altar,  and  which  make  her  so 


76  OUR   OLD  HOME 

much  more  than  he  ever  bargained  for! 
Is  it  not  a  sounder  view  of  the  case,  that 
the  matrimonial  bond  cannot  be  held  to 
include  the  three  fourths  of  the  wife  that 
had  no  existence  when  the  ceremony  was 
performed  ?  And  as  a  matter  of  conscience 
and  good  morals,  ought  not  an  English 
married  pair  to  insist  upon  the  celebration 
of  a  silver-wedding  at  the  end  of  twenty- 
five  years,  in  order  to  legalize  and  mutually 
appropriate  that  corporeal  growth  of  which 
both  parties  have  individually  come  into 
possession  since  they  were  pronounced  one 
flesh? 

The  chief  enjoyment  of  my  several  visits 
to  Leamington  lay  in  rural  walks  about  the 
neighborhood,  and  in  jaunts  to  places  of 
note  and  interest,  which  are  particularly 
abundant  in  that  region.  The  high-roads 
are  made  pleasant  to  the  traveler  by  a 
border  of  trees,  and  often  afford  him  the 
hospitality  of  a  wayside  bench  beneath  a 
comfortable  shade.  But  a  fresher  delight 
is  to  be  found  in  the  foot-paths,  which  go 
wandering  away  from  stile  to  stile,  along 
hedges,  and  across  broad  fields,  and  through 
wooded  parks,  leading  you  to  little  hamlets 
of  thatched  cottages,  ancient,  solitary  farm 
houses,  picturesque  old  mills,  streamlets, 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  'JJ 

pools,  and  all  those  quiet,  secret,  unexpect 
ed,  yet  strangely  familiar  features  of  English 
scenery  that  Tennyson  shows  us  in  his 
idyls  and  eclogues.  These  by-paths  admit 
the  wayfarer  into  the  very  heart  of  rural 
life,  and  yet  do  not  burden  him  with  a 
sense  of  intrusiveness.  He  has  a  right  to 
go  whithersoever  they  lead  him  ;  for,  with 
all  their  shaded  privacy,  they  are  as  much 
the  property  of  the  public  as  the  dusty 
high-road  itself,  and  even  by  an  older  tenure. 
Their  antiquity  probably  exceeds  that  of 
the  Roman  ways ;  the  footsteps  of  the 
aboriginal  Britons  first  wore  away  the 
grass,  and  the  natural  flow  of  intercourse 
between  village  and  village  has  kept  the 
track  bare  ever  since.  An  American  farmer 
would  plough  across  any  such  path,  and 
obliterate  it  with  his  hills  of  potatoes  and 
Indian  corn;  but  here  it  is  protected  by 
law,  and  still  more  by  the  sacredness  that 
inevitably  springs  up,  in  this  soil,  along  the 
well-defined  footprints  of  centuries.  Old 
associations  are  sure  to  be  fragrant  herbs 
in  English  nostrils  ;  we  pull  them  up  as 
weeds. 

I  remember  such  a  path,  the  access  to 
which  is  from  Lovers'  Grove,  a  range  of 
tall  old  oaks  and  elms  on  a  high  hill-top, 


78  OUR   OLD  HOME 

whence  there  is  a  view  of  Warwick  Castle, 
and  a  wide  extent  of  landscape,  beautiful, 
though  bedimmed  with  English  mist.  This 
particular  foot-path,  however,  is  not  a  re 
markably  good  specimen  of  its  kind,  since 
it  leads  into  no  hollows  and  seclusions,  and 
soon  terminates  in  a  high-road.  It  connects 
Leamington  by  a  short  cut  with  the  small 
neighboring  village  of  Lillington,  a  place 
which  impresses  an  American  observer  with 
its  many  points  of  contrast  to  the  rural 
aspects  of  his  own  country.  The  village 
consists  chiefly  of  one  row  of  contiguous 
dwellings,  separated  only  by  party-walls, 
but  ill-matched  among  themselves,  being 
of  different  heights,  and  apparently  of 
various  ages,  though  all  are  of  an  antiquity 
which  we  should  call  venerable.  Some  of 
the  windows  are  leaden-framed  lattices 
opening  on  hinges.  These  houses  are 
mostly  built  of  gray  stone ;  but  others,  in 
the  same  range,  are  of  brick,  and  one  or 
two  are  in  a  very  old  fashion,  —  Elizabethan, 
or  still  older,  —  having  a  ponderous  frame 
work  of  oak,  painted  black,  and  filled  in 
with  plastered  stone  or  bricks.  Judging 
by  the  patches  of  repair,  the  oak  seems  to 
be  the  more  durable  part  of  the  structure. 
Some  of  the  roofs  are  covered  with  earthen 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  79 

tiles ;  others  (more  decayed  and  poverty- 
stricken)  with  thatch,  out  of  which  sprouts 
a  luxurious  vegetation  of  grass,  house-leeks, 
and  yellow  flowers.  What  especially  strikes 
an  American  is  the  lack  of  that  insulated 
space,  the  intervening  gardens,  grass-plots, 
orchards,  broad  -  spreading  shade -trees, 
which  occur  between  our  own  village- 
houses.  These  English  dwellings  have  no 
such  separate  surroundings  ;  they  all  grow 
together,  like  the  cells  of  a  honeycomb. 

Beyond  the  first  row  of  houses,  and 
hidden  from  it  by  a  turn  of  the  road,  there 
was  another  row  (or  block,  as  we  should 
call  it)  of  small  old  cottages,  stuck  one 
against  another,  with  their  thatched  roofs 
forming  a  single  contiguity.  These,  I  pre 
sume,  were  the  habitations  of  the  poorest 
order  of  rustic  laborers ;  and  the  narrow 
precincts  of  each  cottage,  as  well  as  the 
close  neighborhood  of  the  whole,  gave  the 
impression  of  a  stifled,  unhealthy  atmos 
phere  among  the  occupants.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  there  should  be  a  cleanly 
reserve,  a  proper  self-respect  among  indi 
viduals,  or  a  wholesome  unfamiliarity  be 
tween  families,  where  human  life  was 
crowded  and  massed  into  such  intimate 
communities  as  these.  Nevertheless,  not 


80  OUR   OLD   HOME 

to  look  beyond  the  outside,  I  never  saw  a 
prettier  rural  scene  than  was  presented  by 
this  range  of  contiguous  huts.  For  in  front 
of  the  whole  row  was  a  luxuriant  and  well- 
trimmed  hawthorn  hedge,  and  belonging 
to  each  cottage  was  a  little  square  of  garden- 
ground,  separated  from  its  neighbors  by  a 
line  of  the  same  verdant  fence.  The  gar 
dens  were  chockfull,  not  of  esculent  vege 
tables,  but  of  flowers,  familiar  ones,  but 
very  bright-colored,  and  shrubs  of  box, 
some  of  which  were  trimmed  into  artistic 
shapes ;  and  I  remember,  before  one  door, 
a  representation  of  Warwick  Castle,  made 
of  oyster-shells.  The  cottagers  evidently 
loved  the  little  nests  in  which  they  dwelt, 
and  did  their  best  to  make  them  beautiful, 
and  succeeded  more  than  tolerably  well, — 
so  kindly  did  nature  help  their  humble  ef 
forts  with  its  verdure,  flowers,  moss,  lichens, 
and  the  green  things  that  grew  out  of  the 
thatch.  Through  some  of  the  open  door 
ways  we  saw  plump  children  rolling  about 
on  the  stone  floors,  and  their  mothers,  by  no 
means  very  pretty,  but  as  happy-looking  as 
mothers  generally  are  ;  and  while  we  gazed 
at  these  domestic  matters  an  old  woman 
rushed  wildly  out  of  one  of  the  gates,  up 
holding  a  shovel,  on  which  she  clanged  and 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  8 1 

clattered  with  a  key.  At  first  we  fancied 
that  she  intended  an  onslaught  against 
ourselves,  but  soon  discovered  that  a  more 
dangerous  enemy  was  abroad ;  for  the  old 
lady's  bees  had  swarmed,  and  the  air  was 
full  of  them,  whizzing  by  our  heads  like 
bullets.1 

Not  far  from  these  two  rows  of  houses 
and  cottages,  a  green  lane,  overshadowed 
with  trees,  turned  aside  from  the  main 
road,  and  tended  towards  a  square,  gray 
tower,  the  battlements  of  which  were  just 
high  enough  to  be  visible  above  the  foliage. 
Wending  our  way  thitherward,  we  found 
the  very  picture  and  ideal  of  a  country 
church  and  churchyard.  The  tower  seemed 
to  be  of  Norman  architecture,  low,  massive, 
and  crowned  with  battlements.  The  body 

1  But  the  old,  whitewashed  stone  cottage  [near  Liver 
pool]  is  still  frequent,  with  its  roof  of  slate  or  thatch, 
which,  perhaps,  is  green  with  weeds  or  grass.  Through 
its  open  door,  you  see  that  it  has  a  pavement  of  flag 
stones,  or  perhaps  of  red  freestone ;  and  hogs  and 
donkeys  are  familiar  with  the  threshold.  The  door 
always  opens  directly  into  the  kitchen,  without  any  vesti 
bule  ;  and,  glimpsing  in,  you  see  that  a  cottager's  life 
must  be  the  very  plainest  and  homeliest  that  ever  was 
lived  by  men  and  women.  Yet  the  flowers  about  the  door 
often  indicate  a  native  capacity  for  the  beautiful ;  but 
often  there  is  only  a  pavement  of  round  stones  or  of 
flagstones,  like  those  within.  —  II.  70. 


82  OUR   OLD  HOME 

of  the  church  was  of  very  modest  dimen 
sions,  and  the  eaves  so  low  that  I  could 
touch  them  with  my  walking-stick.  We 
looked  into  the  windows  and  beheld  the 
dim  and  quiet  interior,  a  narrow  space,  but 
venerable  with  the  consecration  of  many 
centuries,  and  keeping  its  sanctity  as  entire 
and  inviolate  as  that  of  a  vast  cathedral. 
The  nave  was  divided  from  the  side  aisles 
of  the  church  by  pointed  arches  resting  on 
very  sturdy  pillars  :  it  was  good  to  see  how 
solemnly  they  held  themselves  to  their  age 
long  task  of  supporting  that  lowly  roof. 
There  was  a  small  organ,  suited  in  size  to 
the  vaulted  hollow,  which  it  weekly  filled 
with  religious  sound.  On  the  opposite 
wall  of  the  church,  between  two  windows, 
was  a  mural  tablet  of  white  marble,  with 
an  inscription  in  black  letters,  —  the  only 
such  memorial  that  I  could  discern,  although 
many  dead  people  doubtless  lay  beneath 
the  floor,  and  had  paved  it  with  their  ancient 
tombstones,  as  is  customary  in  old  English 
churches.  There  were  no  modern  painted 
windows,  flaring  with  raw  colors,  nor  other 
gorgeous  adornments,  such  as  the  present 
taste  for  mediaeval  restoration  often  patches 
upon  the  decorous  simplicity  of  the  gray 
village  church.  It  is  probably  the  worship- 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  83 

ing-place  of  no  more  distinguished  a  con 
gregation  than  the  farmers  and  peasantry 
who  inhabit  the  houses  and  cottages  which 
I  have  just  described.  Had  the  lord  of  the 
manor  been  one  of  the  parishioners,  there 
would  have  been  an  eminent  pew  near  the 
chancel,  walled  high  about,  curtained,  and 
softly  cushioned,  warmed  by  a  fireplace  of 
its  own,  and  distinguished  by  hereditary 
tablets  and  escutcheons  on  the  inclosed 
stone  pillar. 

A  well-trodden  path  led  across  the 
churchyard,  and  the  gate  being  on  the  latch, 
we  entered,  and  walked  round  among  the 
graves  and  monuments.  The  latter  were 
chiefly  headstones,  none  of  which  were 
very  old,  so  far  as  was  discoverable  by  the 
dates ;  some,  indeed,  in  so  ancient  a  ceme 
tery,  were  disagreeably  new,  with  inscrip 
tions  glittering  like  sunshine  in  gold  letters. 
The  ground  must  have  been  dug  over  and 
over  again,  innumerable  times,  until  the 
soil  is  made  up  of  what  was  once  human 
clay,  out  of  which  have  sprung  successive 
crops  of  gravestones,  that  floarish  their 
allotted  time,  and  disappear,  like  the  weeds 
and  flowers  in  their  briefer  period.  The 
English  climate  is  very  unfavorable  to  the 
endurance  of  memorials  in  the  open  air. 


84  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Twenty  years  of  it  suffice  to  give  as  much 
antiquity  of  aspect,  whether  to  tombstone 
or  edifice,  as  a  hundred  years  of  our  own 
drier  atmosphere,  —  so  soon  do  the  drizzly 
rains  and  constant  moisture  corrode  the 
surface  of  marble  or  freestone.  Sculptured 
edges  lose  their  sharpness  in  a  year  or  two  ; 
yellow  lichens  overspread  a  beloved  name, 
and  obliterate  it  while  it  is  yet  fresh  upon 
some  survivor's  heart.  Time  gnaws  an 
English  gravestone  with  wonderful  appetite; 
and  when  the  inscription  is  quite  illegible, 
the  sexton  takes  the  useless  slab  away,  and 
perhaps  makes  a  hearthstone  of  it,  and  digs 
up  the  unripe  bones  which  it  ineffectually 
tried  to  memorialize,  and  gives  the  bed  to 
another  sleeper.  In  the  Charter  Street 
burial-ground  at  Salem,  and  in  the  old 
graveyard  on  the  hill  at  Ipswich,  I  have 
seen  more  ancient  gravestones,  with  legi 
ble  inscriptions  on  them,  than  in  any  Eng 
lish  churchyard. 

And  yet  this  same  ungenial  climate, 
hostile  as  it  generally  is  to  the  long  re 
membrance  of  departed  people,  has  some 
times  a  lovely  way  of  dealing  with  the 
records  on  certain  monuments  that  lie 
horizontally  in  the  open  air.  The  rain  falls 
into  the  deep  incisions  of  the  letters,  and 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  85 

has  scarcely  time  to  be  dried  away  before  an 
other  shower  sprinkles  the  flat  stone  again, 
and  replenishes  those  little  reservoirs.  The 
unseen,  mysterious  seeds  of  mosses  find 
their  way  into  the  lettered  furrows,  and 
are  made  to  germinate  by  the  continual 
moisture  and  watery  sunshine  of  the  Eng 
lish  sky ;  and  by  and  by,  in  a  year,  or  two 
years,  or  many  years,  behold  the  complete 
inscription  — 

^ere  2Lgetfj  tfy  iSotjg, 

and  all  the  rest  of  the  tender  falsehood  — 
beautifully  embossed  in  raised  letters  of 
living  green,  a  bas-relief  of  velvet  moss  on 
the  marble  slab  !  It  becomes  more  legible, 
under  the  skyey  influences,  after  the  world 
has  forgotten  the  deceased,  than  when  it 
was  fresh  from  the  stone-cutter's  hands.  It 
outlives  the  grief  of  friends.  I  first  saw  an 
example  of  this  in  Bebbington  churchyard,1 

1  There  were  monuments  about  the  church  [of  Beb 
bington],  some  lying  flat  on  the  ground,  others  elevated 
on  low  pillars,  or  on  cross  slabs  of  stone,  and  almost  all 
looking  dark,  moss-grown,  and  very  antique.  But  on 
reading  some  of  the  inscriptions,  I  was  surprised  to  find 
them  very  recent ;  for,  in  fact,  twenty  years  of  this 
climate  suffices  to  give  as  much  or  more  antiquity  of 
aspect,  whether  to  gravestone  or  edifice,  than  a  hundred 
years  of  our  own,  —  so  soon  do  lichens  creep  over  the 
surface,  so  soon  does  it  blacken,  so  soon  do  the  edges 
lose  their  sharpness,  so  soon  does  Time  gnaw  away  the 
records.  —  I.  439. 


86  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  Cheshire,  and  thought  that  Nature  must 
needs  have  had  a  special  tenderness  for 
the  person  (no  noted  man,  however,  in  the 
world's  history)  so  long  ago  laid  beneath 
that  stone,  since  she  took  such  wonderful 
pains  to  "keep  his  memory  green."  Per 
haps  the  proverbial  phrase  just  quoted  may 
have  had  its  origin  in  the  natural  phenome 
non  here  described. 

While  we  rested  ourselves  on  a  horizontal 
monument,  which  was  elevated  just  high 
enough  to  be  a  convenient  seat,  I  observed 
that  one  of  the  gravestones  lay  very  close 
to  the  church,  —  so  close  that  the  droppings 
of  the  eaves  would  fall  upon  it.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  inmate  of  that  grave  had  desired 
to  creep  under  the  church-wall.  On  closer 
inspection,  we  found  an  almost  illegible 
epitaph  on  the  stone,  and  with  difficulty 
made  out  this  forlorn  verse  :  — 

"  Poorly  lived, 
And  poorly  died, 
Poorly  buried, 
And  no  one  cried." 

It  would  be  hard  to  compress  the  story  of 
a  cold  and  luckless  life,  death,  and  burial 
into  fewer  words,  or  more  impressive  ones  ; 
at  least,  we  found  them  impressive,  perhaps 
because  we  had  to  re-create  the  inscription 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  8/ 

by  scraping  away  the  lichens  from  the 
faintly  traced  letters.  The  grave  was  on 
the  shady  and  damp  side  of  the  church, 
endwise  towards  it,  the  headstone  being 
within  about  three  feet  of  the  foundation- 
wall  ;  so  that,  unless  the  poor  man  was  a 
dwarf,  he  must  have  been  doubled  up  to 
fit  him  into  his  final  resting-place.  No 
wonder  that  his  epitaph  murmured  against 
so  poor  a  burial  as  this !  His  name,  as 
well  as  I  could  make  it  out,  was  Treeo,  — 
John  Treeo,  I  think,  —  and  he  died  in 
1810,  at  the  age  of  seventy-four.  The 
gravestone  is  so  overgrown  with  grass  and 
weeds,  so  covered  with  unsightly  lichens, 
and  so  crumbly  with  time  and  foul  weather, 
that  it  is  questionable  whether  anybody 
will  ever  be  at  the  trouble  of  deciphering: 
it  again.  But  there  is  a  quaint  and  sad 
kind  of  enjoyment  in  defeating  (to  such 
slight  degree  as  my  pen  may  do  it)  the 
probabilities  of  oblivion  for  poor  John 
Treeo,  and  asking  a  little  sympathy  for 
him,  half  a  century  after  his  death,  and 
making  him  better  and  more  widely  known, 
at  least,  than  any  other  slumberer  in  Lil- 
lington  churchyard  :  he  having  been,  as 
appearances  go,  the  outcast  of  them  all. 
You  find  similar  old  churches  and  villages 


88  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  all  the  neighboring  country,  at  the  dis 
tance  of  every  two  or  three  miles  ;  and 
I  describe  them,  not  as  being  rare,  but 
because  they  are  so  common  and  charac 
teristic.  The  village  of  Whitnash,  within 
twenty  minutes'  walk  of  Leamington,  looks 
as  secluded,  as  rural,  and  as  little  disturbed 
by  the  fashions  of  to-day,  as  if  Dr.  Jephson 
had  never  developed  all  those  Parades  and 
Crescents  out  of  his  magic  well.  I  used  to 
wonder  whether  the  inhabitants  had  ever 
yet  heard  of  railways,  or,  at  their  slow  rate 
of  progress,  had  even  reached  the  epoch 
of  stage-coaches.  As  you  approach  the 
village,  while  it  is  yet  unseen,  you  observe 
a  tall,  overshadowing  canopy  of  elm -tree 
tops,  beneath  which  you  almost  hesitate  to 
follow  the  public  road,  on  account  of  the 
remoteness  that  seems  to  exist  between 
the  precincts  of  this  old-world  community 
and  the  thronged  modern  street  out  of 
which  you  have  so  recently  emerged. 
Venturing  onward,  however,  you  soon  find 
yourself  in  the  heart  of  Whitnash,  and  see 
an  irregular  ring  of  ancient  rustic  dwellings 
surrounding  the  village  green,  on  one  side 
of  which  stands  the  church,  with  its  square 
Norman  tower  and  battlements,  while  close 
adjoining  is  the  vicarage,  made  picturesque 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  89 

by  peaks  and  gables.  At  first  glimpse, 
none  of  the  houses  appear  to  be  less  than 
two  or  three  centuries  old,  and  they  are  of 
the  ancient,  wooden-framed  fashion,  with 
thatched  roofs,  which  give  them  the  air 
of  birds'  nests,  thereby  assimilating  them 
closely  to  the  simplicity  of  nature. 

The  church-tower  is  mossy  and  much 
gnawed  by  time ;  it  has  narrow  loopholes 
up  and  down  its  front  and  sides,  and  an 
arched  window  over  the  low  portal,  set  with 
small  panes  of  glass,  cracked,  dim,  and  ir 
regular,  through  which  a  by-gone  age  is  peep 
ing  out  into  the  daylight.  Some  of  those 
old,  grotesque  faces,  called  gargoyles,  are 
seen  on  the  projections  of  the  architecture. 
The  churchyard  is  very  small,  and  is  en 
compassed  by  a  gray  stone  fence  that  looks 
as  ancient  as  the  church  itself.  In  front 
of  the  tower,  on  the  village  green,  is  a  yew- 
tree  of  incalculable  age,  with  a  vast  circum 
ference  of  trunk,  but  a  very  scanty  head 
of  foliage ;  though  its  boughs  still  keep 
some  of  the  vitality  which,  perhaps,  was  in 
its  early  prime  when  the  Saxon  invaders 
founded  Whitnash.  A  thousand  years  is 
no  extraordinary  antiquity  in  the  lifetime 
of  a  yew.  We  were  pleasantly  startled, 
however,  by  discovering  an  exuberance  of 


90  OUR   OLD  HOME 

more  youthful  life  than  we  had  thought 
possible  in  so  old  a  tree  ;  for  the  faces  of 
two  children  laughed  at  us  out  of  an  open 
ing  in  the  trunk,  which  had  become  hollow 
with  long  decay.  On  one  side  of  the  yew 
stood  a  framework  of  worm-eaten  timber, 
the  use  and  meaning  of  which  puzzled  me 
exceedingly,  till  I  made  it  out  to  be  the 
village  stocks ;  a  public  institution  that,  in 
its  day,  had  doubtless  hampered  many  a 
pair  of  shank-bones,  now  crumbling  in  the 
adjacent  churchyard.  It  is  not  to  be  sup 
posed,  however,  that  this  old-fashioned 
mode  of  punishment  is  still  in  vogue  among 
the  good  people  of  Whitnash.  The  vicar 
of  the  parish  has  antiquarian  propensities, 
and  had  probably  dragged  the  stocks  out 
of  some  dusty  hiding-place  and  set  them 
up  on  the  former  site  as  a  curiosity. 

I  disquiet  myself  in  vain  with  the  effort 
to  hit  upon  some  characteristic  feature,  or 
assemblage  of  features,  that  shall  convey  to 
the  reader  the  influence  of  hoar  antiquity 
lingering  into  the  present  daylight,  as  I  so 
often  felt  it  in  these  old  English  scenes. 
It  is  only  an  American  who  can  feel  it ; 
and  even  he  begins  to  find  himself  growing 
insensible  to  its  effect,  after  a  long  resi 
dence  in  England.  But  while  you  are  still 


LEAMING7VN  SPA  91 

new  in  the  old  country,  it  thrills  you  with 
strange  emotion  to  think  that  this  little 
church  of  Whitnash,  humble  as  it  seems, 
stood  for  ages  under  the  Catholic  faith,  and 
has  not  materially  changed  since  Wick- 
liffe's  days,  and  that  it  looked  as  gray  as 
now  in  Bloody  Mary's  time,  and  that  Crom 
well's  troopers  broke  off  the  stone  noses  of 
those  same  gargoyles  that  are  now  grin 
ning  in  your  face.  So,  too,  with  the  imme 
morial  yew-tree ;  you  see  its  great  roots 
grasping  hold  of  the  earth  like  gigantic 
claws,  clinging  so  sturdily  that  no  effort  of 
time  can  wrench  them  away ;  and  there 
being  life  in  the  old  tree,  you  feel  all  the 
more  as  if  a  contemporary  witness  were 
telling  you  of  the  things  that  have  been. 
It  has  lived  among  men,  and  been  a 
familiar  object  to  them,  and  seen  them 
brought  to  be  christened  and  married  and 
buried  in  the  neighboring  church  and 
churchyard,  through  so  many  centuries, 
that  it  knows  all  about  our  race,  so  far  as 
fifty  generations  of  the  Whitnash  people 
can  supply  such  knowledge. 

And,  after  all,  what  a  weary  life  it  must 
have  been  for  the  old  tree !  Tedious  be 
yond  imagination  !  Such,  I  think,  is  the 
final  impression  on  the  mind  of  an  Ameri- 


Q2  OUR   OLD  HOME 

can  visitor,  when  his  delight  at  finding 
something  permanent  begins  to  yield  to 
his  Western  love  of  change,  and  he  be 
comes  sensible  of  the  heavy  air  of  a  spot 
where  the  forefathers  and  foremothers 
have  grown  up  together,  intermarried,  and 
died,  through  a  long  succession  of  lives, 
without  any  intermixture  of  new  elements, 
till  family  features  and  character  are  all 
run  in  the  same  inevitable  mould.  Life  is 
there  fossilized  in  its  greenest  leaf.  The 
man  who  died  yesterday  or  ever  so  long 
ago  walks  the  village  street  to-day,  and 
chooses  the  same  wife  that  he  married  a 
hundred  years  since,  and  must  be  buried 
again  to-morrow  under  the  same  kindred 
dust  that  has  already  covered  him  half  a 
score  of  times.  The  stone  threshold  of  his 
cottage  is  worn  away  with  his  hobnailed 
footsteps,  shuffling  over  it  from  the  reign 
of  the  first  Plantagenet  to  that  of  Victoria. 
Better  than  this  is  the  lot  of  our  restless 
countrymen,  whose  modern  instinct  bids 
them  tend  always  towards  "  fresh  woods 
and  pastures  new."  Rather  than  such 
monotony  of  sluggish  ages,  loitering  on  a 
village  green,  toiling  in  hereditary  fields, 
listening  to  the  parson's  drone  lengthened 
through  centuries  in  the  gray  Norman 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  93 

church,  let  us  welcome  whatever  change 
may  come,  —  change  of  place,  social  cus 
toms,  political  institutions,  modes  of  wor 
ship,  —  trusting  that,  if  all  present  things 
shall  vanish,  they  will  but  make  room  for 
better  systems,  and  for  a  higher  type  of 
man  to  clothe  his  life  in  them,  and  to  fling 
them  off  in  turn. 

Nevertheless,  while  an  American  willing 
ly  accepts  growth  and  change  as  the  law  of 
his  own  national  and  private  existence,  he 
has  a  singular  tenderness  for  the  stone- 
incrusted  institutions  of  the  mother-country. 
The  reason  may  be  (though  I  should  prefer 
a  more  generous  explanation)  that  he  rec 
ognizes  the  tendency  of  these  hardened 
forms  to  stiffen  her  joints  and  fetter  her 
ankles,  in  the  race  and  rivalry  of  improve 
ment.  I  hated  to  see  so  much  as  a  twig  of 
ivy  wrenched  away  from  an  old  wall  in 
England.  Yet  change  is  at  work,  even  in 
such  a  village  as  Whitnash.  At  a  subse 
quent  visit,  looking  more  critically  at  the 
irregular  circle  of  dwellings  that  surround 
the  yew-tree  and  confront  the  church,  I 
perceived  that  some  of  the  houses  must 
have  been  built  within  no  long  time, 
although  the  thatch,  the  quaint  gables,  and 
the  old  oaken  framework  of  the  others  dif- 


94  OUR   OLD  HOME 

fused  an  air  of  antiquity  over  the  whole 
assemblage.  The  church  itself  was  under 
going  repair  and  restoration,  which  is  but 
another  name  for  change.  Masons  were 
making  patchwork  on  the  front  of  the 
tower,  and  were  sawing  a  slab  of  stone  and 
piling  up  bricks  to  strengthen  the  side-wall, 
or  possibly  to  enlarge  the  ancient  edifice 
by  an  additional  aisle.  Moreover,  they 
had  dug  an  immense  pit  in  the  churchyard, 
long  and  broad,  and  fifteen  feet  deep,  two 
thirds  of  which  profundity  were  discolored 
by  human  decay,  and  mixed  up  with  crum 
bly  bones.  What  this  excavation  was  in 
tended  for  I  could  nowise  imagine,  unless 
it  were  the  very  pit  in  which  Longfellow 
bids  the  "  Dead  Past  bury  its  dead,"  and 
Whitnash,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  were 
going  to  avail  itself  of  our  poet's  suggestion. 
If  so,  it  must  needs  be  confessed  that  many 
picturesque  and  delightful  things  would  be 
thrown  into  the  hole,  and  covered  out  of 
sight  forever. 

The  article  which  I  am  writing  has  taken 
its  own  course,  and  occupied  itself  almost 
wholly  with  country  churches  ;  whereas  I 
had  purposed  to  attempt  a  description  of 
some  of  the  many  old  towns  —  Warwick, 
Coventry,  Kenilworth,  Stratford-on-Avon 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  95 

—  which  lie  within  an  easy  scope  of  Leam 
ington.  And  still  another  church  presents 
itself  to  my  remembrance.  It  is  that  of 
Hatton,  on  which  I  stumbled  in  the  course 
of  a  forenoon's  ramble,  and  paused  a  little 
while  to  look  at  it  for  the  sake  of  old  Dr. 
Parr,  who  was  once  its  vicar.  Hatton, 
so  far  as  I  could  discover,  has  no  public- 
house,  no.  shop,  no  contiguity  of  roofs  (as 
in  most  English  villages,  however  small), 
but  is  merely  an  ancient  neighborhood  of 
farmhouses,  spacious,  and  standing  wide 
apart,  each  within  its  own  precincts,  and 
offering  a  most  comfortable  aspect  of  or 
chards,  harvest-fields,  barns,  stacks,  and  all 
manner  of  rural  plenty.  It  seemed  to  be 
a  community  of  old  settlers,  among  whom 
everything  had  been  going  on  prosper 
ously  since  an  epoch  beyond  the  memory 
of  man ;  and  they  kept  a  certain  privacy 
among  themselves,  and  dwelt  on  a  cross 
road,  at  the  entrance  of  which  was  a  barred 
gate,  hospitably  open,  but  still  impressing 
me  with  a  sense  of  scarcely  warrantable 
intrusion.  After  all,  in  some  shady  nook 
of  those  gentle  Warwickshire  slopes,  there 
may  have  been  a  denser  and  more  populous 
settlement  styled  Hatton,  which  I  never 
reached. 


g6  OUR  OLD  HOME 

Emerging  from  the  by-road,  and  enter 
ing  upon  one  that  crossed  it  at  right  angles 
and  led  to  Warwick,  I  espied  the  church  of 
Dr.  Parr.  Like  the  others  which  I  have 
described,  it  had  a  low  stone  tower,  square, 
and  battlemented  at  its  summit :  for  all 
these  little  churches  seem  to  have  been 
built  on  the  same  model,  and  nearly  at  the 
same  measurement,  and  have  even  a  greater 
family-likeness  than  the  cathedrals.  As  I 
approached,  the  bell  of  the  tower  (a  re 
markably  deep-toned  bell,  considering  how 
small  it  was)  flung  its  voice  abroad,  and 
told  me  that  it  was  noon.  The  church 
stands  among  its  graves,  a  little  removed 
from  the  wayside,  quite  apart  from  any 
collection  of  houses,  and  with  no  signs  of 
a  vicarage ;  it  is  a  good  deal  shadowed  by 
trees,  and  not  wholly  destitute  of  ivy.  The 
body  of  the  edifice,  unfortunately  (and  it  is 
an  outrage  which  the  English  churchwar 
dens  are  fond  of  perpetrating),  has  been 
newly  covered  with  a  yellowish  plaster  or 
wash,  so  as  quite  to  destroy  the  aspect  of 
antiquity,  except  upon  the  tower,  which 
wears  the  dark  gray  hue  of  many  centuries. 
The  chancel-window  is  painted  with  a  rep- 
resentation  of  Christ  upon  the  Cross,  and 
all  the  other  windows  are  full  of  painted  or 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  97 

stained  glass,  but  none  of  it  ancient,  nor 
(if  it  be  fair  to  judge  from  without  of  what 
ought  to  be  seen  within)  possessing  any  of 
the  tender  glory  that  should  be  the  in 
heritance  of  this  branch  of  Art,  revived 
from  mediaeval  times.  I  stepped  over  the 
graves,  and  peeped  in  at  two  or  three  of 
the  windows,  and  saw  the  snug  interior  of 
the  church  glimmering  through  the  many- 
colored  panes,  like  a  show  of  commonplace 
objects  under  the  fantastic  influence  of  a 
dream  :  for  the  floor  was  covered  with 
modern  pews,  very  like  what  we  may  see 
in  a  New  England  meeting-house,  though, 
I  think,  a  little  more  favorable  than  those 
would  be  to  the  quiet  slumbers  of  the 
Hatton  farmers  and  their  families.  Those 
who  slept  under  Dr.  Parr's  preaching  now 
prolong  their  nap,  I  suppose,  in  the  church 
yard  round  about,  and  can  scarcely  have 
drawn  much  spiritual  benefit  from  any 
truths  that  he  contrived  to  tell  them  in 
their  lifetime.  It  struck  me  as  a  rare  ex 
ample  (even  where  examples  are  numerous) 
of  a  man  utterly  misplaced,  that  this  enor 
mous  scholar,  great  in  the  classic  tongues, 
and  inevitably  converting  his  own  simplest 
vernacular  into  a  learned  language,  should 
have  been  set  up  in  this  homely  pulpit, 


98  OUR   OLD  HOME 

and  ordained  to  preach  salvation  to  a  rustic 
audience,  to  whom  it  is  difficult  to  imagine 
how  he  could  ever  have  spoken  one  avail 
able  word. 

Almost  always,  in  visiting  such  scenes 
as  I  have  been  attempting  to  describe,  I 
had  a  singular  sense  of  having  been  there 
before.  The  ivy-grown  English  churches 
(even  that  of  Bebbington,1  the  first  that 
I  beheld)  were  quite  as  familiar  to  me, 
when  fresh  from  home,  as  the  old  wooden 
meeting-house  in  Salem,  which  used,  on 
wintry  Sabbaths,  to  be  the  frozen  purgatory 
of  my  childhood.  This  was  a  bewildering, 

1  Soon  we  reached  the  church,  and  I  have  seen  nothing 
yet  in  England  that  so  completely  answered  my  idea  of 
what  such  a  thing  was,  as  this  old  village  church  of 
Bebbington.  It  is  quite  a  large  edifice,  built  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  a  low  peaked  porch  in  the  side,  over 
which,  rudely  cut  in  stone,  is  the  date  1300  and  some 
thing.  The  steeple  has  ivy  on  it,  and  looks  old,  old,  old  ; 
so  does  the  whole  church,  though  portions  of  it  have 
been  renewed,  but  not  so  as  to  impair  the  aspect  of 
heavy,  substantial  endurance,  and  long,  long  decay, 
which  may  go  on  hundreds  of  years  longer  before  the 
church  is  a  ruin.  There  it  stands,  among  the  surround 
ing  graves,  looking  just  the  same  as  it  did  in  Bloody 
Mary's  days  ;  just  as  it  did  in  Cromwell's  time.  A 
bird  (and  perhaps  many  birds)  had  its  nest  in  the 
steeple,  and  flew  in  and  out  of  the  loopholes  that  were 
opened  into  it.  The  stone  framework  of  the  windows 
looked  particularly  old.  —  I.  438. 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  99 

yet  very  delightful  emotion,  fluttering  about 
me  like  a  faint  summer  wind,  and  filling 
my  imagination  with  a  thousand  half-re 
membrances,  which  looked  as  vivid  as  sun 
shine  at  a  side-glance,  but  faded  quite  away 
whenever  I  attempted  to  grasp  and  define 
them.  Of  course,  the  explanation  of  the 
mystery  was,  that  history,  poetry,  and 
fiction,  books  of  travel,  and  the  talk  of 
tourists,  had  given  me  pretty  accurate  pre 
conceptions  of  the  common  objects  of 
English  scenery,  and  these,  being  long  ago 
vivified  by  a  youthful  fancy,  had  insensibly 
taken  their  places  among  the  images  of 
things  actually  seen.  Yet  the  illusion  was 
often  so  powerful,  that  I  almost  doubted 
whether  such  airy  remembrances  might  not 
be  a  sort  of  innate  idea,  the  print  of  a  rec 
ollection  in  some  ancestral  mind,  transmit 
ted,  with  fainter  and  fainter  impress  through 
several  descents,  to  my  own.  I  felt,  indeed, 
like  the  stalwart  progenitor  in  person,  re 
turning  to  the  hereditary  haunts  after  more 
than  two  hundred  years,  and  finding  the 
church,  the  hall,  the  farmhouse,  the  cottage, 
hardly  changed  during  his  long  absence, 
-the  same  shady  by-paths  and  hedge- 
lanes,  the  same  veiled  sky,  and  green  lus 
tre  of  the  lawns  and  fields, — while  his  own 


100  OUR   OLD  HOME 

affinities  for  these  things,  a  little  obscured 
by  disuse,  were  reviving  at  every  step. 

An  American  is  not  very  apt  to  love  the 
English  people,  as  a  whole,  on  whatever 
length  of  acquaintance.  I  fancy  that  they 
would  value  our  regard,  and  even  recipro 
cate  it  in  their  ungracious  way,  if  we  could 
give  it  to  them  in  spite  of  all  rebuffs  ;  but 
they  are  beset  by  a  curious  and  inevitable 
infelicity,  which  compels  them,  as  it  were, 
to  keep  up  what  they  seem  to  consider  a 
wholesome  bitterness  of  feeling  between 
themselves  and  all  other  nationalities,  espe 
cially  that  of  America.1  They  will  never 
confess  it  ;  nevertheless,  it  is  as  essen 
tial  a  tonic  to  them  as  their  bitter  ale. 
Therefore,  —  and  possibly,  too,  from  a  sim 
ilar  narrowness  in  his  own  character,  —  an 
American  seldom  feels  quite  as  if  he  were 
at  home  among  the  English  people.  If  he 
do  so,  he  has  ceased  to  be  an  American.2 

1  If  an  Englishman  were  individually  acquainted  with 
all    our   twenty-five   millions  of   Americans,  and   liked 
every  one  of  them,  and  believed  that  each  man  of  those 
millions  was  a  Christian,  honest,  upright,  and  kind,  he 
would  doubt,  despise,  and  hate  them  in  the  aggregate, 
however   he   might   love  and  honor  the  individuals.  — 
II.  288. 

2  There  are  some  Englishmen  whom  I  like,  —  one  or 
two  for  whom  I  might  say  I  have  an  affection ;   but  still 


LEAMINGTON  SPA  IO1 

But  it  requires  no  long  residence  to  make 
him  love  their  island,  and  appreciate  it  as 
thoroughly  as  they  themselves  do.  For 
my  part,  I  used  to  wish  that  we  could  an. 
nex  it,  transferring  their  thirty  millions  of 
inhabitants  to  some  convenient  wilderness 
in  the  great  West,  and  putting  half  or  a 
quarter  as  many  of  ourselves  into  their 
places.  The  change  would  be  beneficial  to 
both  parties.  We,  in  our  dry  atmosphere, 
are  getting  too  nervous,  haggard,  dyspep 
tic,  extenuated,  unsubstantial,  theoretic, 
and  need  to  be  made  grosser.  John  Bull, 
on  the  other  hand,  has  grown  bulbous, 
long-bodied,  short -legged,  heavy- witted, 
material,  and,  in  a  word,  too  intensely 
English.  In  a  few  more  centuries  he  will 
be  the  earthliest  creature  that  ever  the 
earth  saw.  Heretofore  Providence  has  ob 
viated  such  a  result  by  timely  intermix 
tures  of  alien  races  with  the  old  English 
stock ;  so  that  each  successive  conquest  of 

there  is  not  the  same  union  between  us  as  if  they  were 
Americans.  A  cold,  thin  medium  intervenes  betwixt 
our  most  intimate  approaches.  It  puts  me  in  mind  of 
Alnaschar  and  his  princess,  with  the  cold  steel  blade  of 
his  scimitar  between  them.  Perhaps  if  I  were  at  home 
I  might  feel  differently ;  but  in  a  foreign  land  I  can 
never  forget  the  distinction  between  English  and  Ameri 
can.— II.  178. 


102  OUR   OLD  HOME 

England  has  proved  a  victory  by  the  reviv 
ification  and  improvement  of  its  native 
manhood.  Cannot  America  and  England 
hit  upon  some  scheme  to  secure  even 
greater  advantages  to  both  nations  ? 


ITT. 

ABOUT   WARWICK 

BETWEEN  bright,  new  Leamington,  the 
growth  of  the  present  century,  and  rusty 
Warwick,  founded  by  King  Cymbeline  in 
the  twilight  ages,  a  thousand  years  before 
the  mediaeval  darkness,  there  are  two  roads, 
either  of  which  may  be  measured  by  a  so 
ber-paced  pedestrian  in  less  than  half  an 
hour. 

One  of  these  avenues  flows  out  of  the 
midst  of  the  smart  parades  and  crescents 
of  the  former  town,  — along  by  hedges  and 
beneath  the  shadow  of  great  elms,  past 
stuccoed  Elizabethan  villas  and  wayside 
alehouses,  and  through  a  hamlet  of  modern 
aspect,  —  and  runs  straight  into  the  prin 
cipal  thoroughfare  of  Warwick.  The  bat- 
tlemented  turrets  of  the  castle,  embow 
ered  half-way  up  in  foliage,  and  the  tall, 
slender  tower  of  St.  Mary's  Church,  rising 
from  among  clustered  roofs,  have  been 
visible  almost  from  the  commencement  of 
the  walk.  Near  the  entrance  of  the  town 


104  OUR    OLD 

stands  St.  John's  School-House,  a  pictur 
esque  old  edifice  of  stone,  with  four  peak 
ed  gables  in  a  row,  alternately  plain  and 
ornamented,  and  wide,  projecting  windows, 
and  a  spacious  and  venerable  porch,  all 
overgrown  with  moss  and  ivy,  and  shut  in 
from  the  world  by  a  high  stone  fence,  not 
less  mossy  than  the  gabled  front.  There 
is  an  iron  gate,  through  the  rusty  open 
work  of  which  you  see  a  grassy  lawn,  and 
almost  expect  to  meet  the  shy,  curious 
eyes  of  the  little  boys  of  past  generations, 
peeping  forth  from  their  infantile  antiquity 
into  the  strangeness  of  our  present  life.  I 
find  a  peculiar  charm  in  these  long-estab 
lished  English  schools,  where  the  school 
boy  of  to-day  sits  side  by  side,  as  it  were, 
with  his  great-grandsire,  on  the  same  old 
benches,  and  often,  I  believe,  thumbs  a 
later,  but  unimproved  edition  of  the  same 
old  grammar  or  arithmetic.  The  new 
fangled  notions  of  a  Yankee  school-com 
mittee  would  madden  many  a  pedagogue, 
and  shake  down  the  roof  of  many  a  time- 
honored  seat  of  learning,  in  the  mother- 
country. 

At  this  point,  however,  we  will  turn 
back,  in  order  to  follow  up  the  other  road 
from  Leamington,  which  was  the  one  that 


ABOUT  WARWICK  105 

I  loved  best  to  take.  It  pursues  a  straight 
and  level  course,  bordered  by  wide  gravel- 
walks  and  overhung  by  the  frequent  elm, 
with  here  a  cottage  and  there  a  villa ;  on 
one  side  a  wooden  plantation,  and  on  the 
other  a  rich  field  of  grass  or  grain ;  until, 
turning  at  right  angles,  it  brings  you  to  an 
arched  bridge  over  the  Avon.  Its  parapet 
is  a  balustrade  carved  out  of  freestone,  into 
the  soft  substance  of  which  a  multitude  of 
persons  have  engraved  their  names  or  ini 
tials,  many  of  them  now  illegible,  while 
others,  more  deeply  cut,  are  illuminated 
with  fresh  green  moss.  These  tokens  in 
dicate  a  famous  spot ;  and  casting  our  eyes 
along  the  smooth  gleam  and  shadow  of  the 
quiet  stream,  through  a  vista  of  willows 
that  droop  on  either  side  into  the  water, 
we  behold  the  gray  magnificence  of  War 
wick  Castle,  uplifting  itself  among  stately 
trees,  and  rearing  its  turrets  high  above 
their  loftiest  branches.  We  can  scarcely 
think  the  scene  real,  so  completely  do  those 
machicolated  towers,  the  long  line  of  battle 
ments,  the  massive  buttresses,  the  high- 
windowed  walls,  shape  out  our  indistinct 
ideas  of  the  antique  time.  It  might  rather 
seem  as  if  the  sleepy  river  (being  Shake 
speare's  Avon,  and  often,  no  doubt,  the 


IO6  OUR   OLD   HOME 

mirror  of  his  gorgeous  visions)  were  dream 
ing  now  of  a  lordly  residence  that  stood 
here  many  centuries  ago ;  and  this  fantasy 
is  strengthened,  when  you  observe  that  the 
image  in  the  tranquil  water  has  all  the  dis 
tinctness  of  the  actual  structure.  Either 
might  be  the  reflection  of  the  other. 
Wherever  Time  has  gnawed  one  of  the 
stones,  you  see  the  mark  of  his  tooth  just 
as  plainly  in  the  sunken  reflection.  Each 
is  so  perfect,  that  the  upper  vision  seems  a 
castle  in  the  air,  and  the  lower  one  an  old 
stronghold  of  feudalism,  miraculously  kept 
from  decay  in  an  enchanted  river. 

A  ruinous  and  ivy-grown  bridge,  that 
projects  from  the  bank  a  little  on  the  hither 
side  of  the  castle,  has  the  effect  of  making 
the  scene  appear  more  entirely  apart  from 
the  every-day  world,  for  it  ends  abruptly 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  —  so  that,  if 
a  cavalcade  of  the  knights  and  ladies  of 
romance  should  issue  from  the  old  walls, 
they  could  never  tread  on  earthly  ground 
any  more  than  we,  approaching  from  the 
side  of  modern  realism,  can  overleap  the 
gulf  between  our  domain  and  theirs.  Yet, 
if  we  seek  to  disenchant  ourselves,  it  may 
readily  be  done.  Crossing  the  bridge  on 
which  we  stand,  and  passing  a  little  farther 


ABOUT  WARWICK  TO? 

on,  we  come  to  the  entrance  of  the  castle, 
abutting  on  the  highway,  and  hospitably 
open  at  certain  hours  to  all  curious  pilgrims 
who  choose  to  disburse  half  a  crown  or  so 
toward  the  support  of  the  earl's  domestics. 
The  sight  of  that  long  series  of  historic 
rooms,  full  of  such  splendors  and  rarities 
as  a  great  English  family  necessarily 
gathers  about  itself  in  its  hereditary  abode, 
and  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  is  well  worth  the 
money,  or  ten  times  as  much,  if  indeed  the 
value  of  the  spectacle  could  be  reckoned  in 
money's-worth.  But  after  the  attendant 
has  hurried  you  from  end  to  end  of  the 
edifice,  repeating  a  guide-book  by  rote,  and 
exorcising  each  successive  hall  of  its  poetic 
glamour  and  witchcraft  by  the  mere  tone 
in  which  he  talks  about  it,  you  will  make 
the  doleful  discovery  that  Warwick  Castle 
has  ceased  to  be  a  dream.  It  is  better, 
methinks,  to  linger  on  the  bridge,  gazing 
at  Caesar's  Tower  and  Guy's  Tower,  in  the 
dim  English  sunshine  above,  and  in  the 
placid  Avon  below,  and  still  keep  them  as 
thoughts  in  your  own  mind,  than  climb  to 
their  summits,  or  touch  even  a  stone  of 
their  actual  substance.  They  will  have  all 
the  more  reality  for  you,  as  stalwart  relics 
of  immemorial  time,  if  you  are  reverent 


108  OUR   OLD  HOME 

enough   to   leave  them  in    the  intangible 
sanctity  of  a  poetic  vision. 

From  the  bridge  over  the  Avon,  the 
road  passes  in  front  of  the  castle-gate,  and 
soon  enters  the  principal  street  of  Warwick, 
a  little  beyond  St.  John's  School-House, 
already  described.  Chester  itself,  most 
antique  of  English  towns,  can  hardly  show 
quainter  architectural  shapes  than  many  of 
the  buildings  that  border  this  street.  They 
are  mostly  of  the  timber-and-plaster  kind, 
with  bowed  and  decrepit  ridge-poles,  and  a 
whole  chronology  of  various  patchwork  in 
their  walls ;  their  low-browed  doorways 
open  upon  a  sunken  floor  ;  their  projecting 
stories  peep,  as  it  were,  over  one  another's 
shoulders,  and  rise  into  a  multiplicity  of 
peaked  gables  ;  they  have  curious  windows, 
breaking  out  irregularly  all  over  the  house, 
some  even  in  the  roof,  set  in  their  own 
little  peaks,  opening  lattice-wise,  and  fur 
nished  with  twenty  small  panes  of  lozenge- 
shaped  glass.  The  architecture  of  these 
edifices  (a  visible  oaken  framework,  show 
ing  the  whole  skeleton  of  the  house,  —  as 
if  a  man's  bones  should  be  arranged  on  his 
outside,  and  his  flesh  seen  through  the 
interstices)  is  often  imitated  by  modern 
builders,  and  with  sufficiently  picturesque 


ABOUT   WARWICK  109 

effect.  The  objection  is,  that  such  houses, 
like  all  imitations  of  by-gone  styles,  have 
an  air  of  affectation  ;  they  do  not  seem  to 
be  built  in  earnest ;  they  are  no  better 
than  playthings,  or  overgrown  baby-houses, 
in  which  nobody  should  be  expected  to 
encounter  the  serious  realities  of  either 
birth  or  death.  Besides,  originating  noth 
ing,  we  leave  no  fashions  for  another  age 
to  copy,  when  we  ourselves  shall  have 
grown  antique. 

Old  as  it  looks,  all  this  portion  of  War 
wick  has  over-brimmed,  as  it  were,  from 
the  original  settlement,  being  outside  of 
the  ancient  wall.  The  street  soon  runs 
under  an  arched  gateway,  with  a  church  or 
some  other  venerable  structure  above  it, 
and  admits  us  into  the  heart  of  the  town. 
At  one  of  my  first  visits,  I  witnessed  a 
military  display.  A  regiment  of  Warwick 
shire  militia,  probably  commanded  by  the 
Earl,  was  going  through  its  drill  in  the 
market-place ;  and  on  the  collar  of  one  of 
the  officers  was  embroidered  the  Bear  and 
Ragged  Staff,  which  has  been  the  cogni 
zance  of  the  Warwick  earldom  from  time 
immemorial.  The  soldiers  were  sturdy 
young  men,  with  the  simple,  stolid,  yet 
kindly,  faces  of  English  rustics,  looking 


110  OUR   OLD   HOME 

exceedingly  well  in  a  body,  but  slouching 
into  a  yeoman-like  carriage  and  appearance 
the  moment  they  were  dismissed  from  drill. 
Squads  of  them  were  distributed  every 
where  about  the  streets,  and  sentinels  were 
posted  at  various  points ;  and  I  saw  a 
sergeant,  with  a  great  key  in  his  hand  (big 
enough  to  have  been  the  key  of  the  castle's 
main  entrance  when  the  gate  was  thickest 
and  heaviest),  apparently  setting  a  guard. 

Thus,  centuries  after  feudal  times  are 
past,  we  find  warriors  still  gathering  under 
the  old  castle  walls,  and  commanded  by  a 
feudal  lord,  just  as  in  the  days  of  the  King- 
Maker,  who,  no  doubt,  often  mustered  his 
retainers  in  the  same  market-place  where  I 
beheld  this  modern  regiment. 

The  interior  of  the  town  wears  a  less 
old-fashioned  aspect  than  the  suburbs 
through  which  we  approach  it ;  and  the 
High  Street  has  shops  with  modern  plate- 
glass,  and  buildings  with  stuccoed  fronts, 
exhibiting  as  few  projections  to  hang  a 
thought  or  sentiment  upon  as  if  an  architect 
of  to-day  had  planned  them.  And,  indeed, 
so  far  as  their  surface  goes,  they  are  per 
haps  new  enough  to  stand  unabashed  in 
an  American  street ;  but  behind  these 
renovated  faces,  with  their  monotonous 


ABOUT  WARWICK  III 

lack  of  expression,  there  is  probably  the 
substance  of  the  same  old  town  that  wore 
a  Gothic  exterior  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
street  is  an  emblem  of  England  itself. 
What  seems  new  in  it  is  chiefly  a  skillful 
and  fortunate  adaptation  of  what  such  a 
people  as  ourselves  would  destroy.  The 
new  things  are  based  and  supported  on 
sturdy  old  things,  and  derive  a  massive 
strength  from  their  deep  and  immemorial 
foundations,  though  with  such  limitations 
and  impediments  as  only  an  Englishman 
could  endure.  But  he  likes  to  feel  the 
weight  of  all  the  past  upon  his  back ;  and, 
moreover,  the  antiquity  that  overburdens 
him  has  taken  root  in  his  being,  and  has 
grown  to  be  rather  a  hump  than  a  pack,  so 
that  there  is  no  getting  rid  of  it  without 
tearing  his  whole  structure  to  pieces.  In 
my  judgment,  as  he  appears  to  be  sufficient- 
ly  comfortable  under  the  mouldy  accretion, 
he  had  better  stumble  on  with  it  as  long  as 
he  can.  He  presents  a  spectacle  which  is 
by  no  means  without  its  charm  for  a  dis 
interested  and  unencumbered  observer. 

When  the  old  edifice,  or  the  antiquated 
custom  or  institution,  appears  in  its  pristine 
form,  without  any  attempt  at  intermarrying 
it  with  modern  fashions,  an  American  can- 


112  OUR   OLD   HOME 

no,t  but  admire  the  picturesque  effect  pro 
duced  by  the  sudden  cropping  up  of  an 
apparently  dead-and-buried  state  of  society 
into  the  actual  present,  of  which  he  is  him 
self  a  part.  We  need  not  go  far  in  War 
wick  without  encountering  an  instance  of 
the  kind.  Proceeding  westward  through 
the  town,  we  find  ourselves  confronted  by 
a  huge  mass  of  natural  rock,  hewn  into 
something  like  architectural  shape,  and 
penetrated  by  a  vaulted  passage,  which  may 
well  have  been  one  of  King  Cymbeline's 
original  gateways  ;  and  on  the  top  of  the 
rock,  over  the  archway,  sits  a  small  old 
church,  communicating  with  an  ancient 
edifice,  or  assemblage  of  edifices,  that  look 
down  from  a  similar  elevation  on  the  side 
of  the  street.  A  range  of  trees  half  hides 
the  latter  establishment  from  the  sun.  It 
presents  a  curious  and  venerable  specimen 
of  the  timber-and-plaster  style  of  building, 
in  which  some  of  the  finest  old  houses  in 
England  are  constructed  ;  the  front  projects 
into  porticoes  and  vestibules,  and  rises  into 
many  gables,  some  in  a  row,  and  others 
crowning  semi-detached  portions  of  the 
structure ;  the  windows  mostly  open  on 
hinges,  but  show  a  delightful  irregularity 
of  shape  and  position  ;  a  multiplicity  of 


ABOUT  WARWICK  113 

chimneys  break  through  the  roof  at  their 
own  will,  or,  at  least,  without  any  settled 
purpose  of  the  architect.  The  whole  affair 
looks  very  old,  —  so  old  indeed  that  the 
front  bulges  forth,  as  if  the  timber  frame 
work  were  a  little  weary,  at  last,  of  standing 
erect  so  long ;  but  the  state  of  repair  is  so 
perfect,  and  there  is  such  an  indescribable 
aspect  of  continuous  vitality  within  the 
system  of  this  aged  house,  that  you  feel 
confident  that  there  may  be  safe  shelter 
yet,  and  perhaps  for  centuries  to  come, 
under  its  time-honored  roof.  And  on  a 
bench,  sluggishly  enjoying  the  sunshine, 
and  looking  into  the  street  of  Warwick 
as  from  a  life  apart,  a  few  old  men  are 
generally  to  be  seen,  wrapped  in  long  cloaks, 
on  which  you  may  detect  the  glistening 
of  a  silver  badge  representing  the  Bear 
and  Ragged  Staff.  These  decorated  wor 
thies  are  some  of  the  twelve  brethren  of 
Leicester's  Hospital,  —  a  community  which 
subsists  to-day  under  the  identical  modes 
that  were  established  for  it  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  of  course  retains 
many  features  of  a  social  life  that  has 
vanished  almost  everywhere  else. 

The  edifice  itself  dates  from  a  much  old 
er  period  than  the  charitable  institution  of 


114  OUR   OLD  HOME 

which  it  is  now  the  home.  It  was  the  seat 
of  a  religious  fraternity  far  back  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  continued  so  till  Henry 
VIII.  turned  all  the  priesthood  of  England 
out  of  doors,  and  put  the  most  unscru 
pulous  of  his  favorites  into  their  vacant 
abodes.  In  many  instances,  the  old  monks 
had  chosen  the  sites  of  their  domiciles  so 
well,  and  built  them  on  such  a  broad  sys 
tem  of  beauty  and  convenience,  that  their 
lay-occupants  found  it  easy  to  convert 
them  into  stately  and  comfortable  homes  ; 
and  as  such  they  still  exist,  with  something 
of  the  antique  reverence  lingering  about 
them.  The  structure  now  before  us  seems 
to  have  been  first  granted  to  Sir  Nicholas 
Lestrange,  who  perhaps  intended,  like 
other  men,  to  establish  his  household  gods 
in  the  niches  whence  he  had  thrown  down 
the  images  of  saints,  and  to  lay  his  hearth 
where  an  altar  had  stood.  But  there  was 
probably  a  natural  reluctance  in  those  days 
(when  Catholicism,  so  lately  repudiated, 
must  needs  have  retained  an  influence  over 
all  but  the  most  obdurate  characters)  to 
bring  one's  hopes  of  domestic  prosperity 
and  a  fortunate  lineage  into  direct  hostility 
with  the  awful  claims  of  the  ancient  reli 
gion.  At  all  events,  there  is  still  a  super- 


ABOUT  WARWICK  115 

stitious  idea,  betwixt  a  fantasy  and  a  belief, 
that  the  possession  of  former  Church  prop 
erty  has  drawn  a  curse  along  with  it,  not 
only  among  the  posterity  of  those  to  whom 
it  was  originally  granted,  but  wherever  it 
has  subsequently  been  transferred,  even 
if  honestly  bought  and  paid  for.  There 
are  families,  now  inhabiting  some  of  the 
beautiful  old  abbeys,  who  appear  to  indulge 
a  species  of  pride  in  recording  the  strange 
deaths  and  ugly  shapes  of  misfortune  that 
have  occurred  among  their  predecessors, 
and  may  be  supposed  likely  to  dog  their 
own  pathway  down  the  ages  of  futurity. 
Whether  Sir  Nicholas  Lestrange,  in  the 
beef-eating  days  of  Old  Harry  and  Eliza 
beth,  was  a  nervous  man,  and  subject  to 
apprehensions  of  this  kind,  I  cannot  tell ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  he  speedily  rid  him 
self  of  the  spoils  of  the  Church,  and  that, 
within  twenty  years  afterwards,  the  edifice 
became  the  property  of  the  famous  Dudley, 
Earl  of  Leicester,  brother  of  the  Earl  of 
Warwick.  He  devoted  the  ancient  reli 
gious  precinct  to  a  charitable  use,  endow 
ing  it  with  an  ample  revenue,  and  making  it 
the  perpetual  home  of  twelve  poor,  honest, 
and  war-broken  soldiers,  mostly  his  own 
retainers,  and  natives  either  of  Warwick- 


Il6  OUR   OLD  HOME 

shire  or  Gloucestershire.  These  veterans, 
or  others  wonderfully  like  them,  still  occupy 
their  monkish  dormitories,  and  haunt  the 
time-darkened  corridors  and  galleries  of 
the  hospital,  leading  a  life  of  old-fashioned 
comfort,  wearing  the  old-fashioned  cloaks, 
and  burnishing  the  identical  silver  badges 
which  the  Earl  of  Leicester  gave  to  the 
original  twelve.  He  is  said  to  have  been 
a  bad  man  in  his  day  ;  but  he  has  suc 
ceeded  in  prolonging  one  good  deed  into 
what  was  to  him  a  distant  future. 

On  the  projecting  story,  over  the  arched 
entrance,  there  is  the  date,  1571,  and  sev 
eral  coats  -  of  -  arms,  either  the  Earl's  or 
those  of  his  kindred,  and  immediately 
above  the  doorway  a  stone  sculpture  of  the 
Bear  and  Ragged  Staff. 

Passing  through  the  arch,  we  find  our 
selves  in  a  quadrangle,  or  inclosed  court, 
such  as  always  formed  the  central  part  of 
a  great  family  residence  in  Queen  Eliza 
beth's  time,  and  earlier.  There  can  hardly 
be  a  more  perfect  specimen  of  such  an 
establishment  than  Leicester's  Hospital. 
The  quadrangle  is  a  sort  of  sky-roofed  hall, 
to  which  there  is  convenient  access  from 
all  parts  of  the  house.  The  four  inner 
fronts,  with  their  high,  steep  roofs  and 


ABOUT   WARWICK  I  I/ 

sharp  gables,  look  into  it  from  antique  win 
dows,  and  through  open  corridors  and  gal 
leries  along  the  sides ;  and  there  seems  to 
be  a  richer  display  of  architectural  devices 
and  ornaments,  quainter  carvings  in  oak, 
and  more  fantastic  shapes  of  the  timber 
framework,  than  on  the  side  toward  the 
street.  On  the  wall  opposite  the  arched 
entrance  are  the  following  inscriptions, 
comprising  such  moral  rules,  I  presume,  as 
were  deemed  most  essential  for  the  daily 
observance  of  the  community  :  "  ^onor  all 
jjflen  "  _  «  jfrar  (Soft  "  —  "  ^onot  tjje  Ittng  "  - 
u  ILobe  tfje  Brotfjerfjoflti ;  "  and  again,  as  if  this 
latter  injunction  needed  emphasis  and  rep 
etition  among  a  household  of  aged  people 
soured  with  the  hard  fortune  of  their  pre 
vious  lives,  "i3e  femtrlg  aff£cti0neti  one  to  an* 
otfjer."  One  sentence,  over  a  door  commu 
nicating  with  the  Master's  side  of  the 
house,  is  addressed  to  that  dignitary,  — 
"J^e  tjjat  ruletjj  afar  men  must  fce  just."  All 
these  are  charactered  in  old  English  letters, 
and  form  part  of  the  elaborate  ornamen 
tation  of  the  house.  Everywhere  —  on  the 
walls,  over  windows  and  doors,  and  at  all 
points  where  there  is  room  to  place  them  — 
appear  escutcheons  of  arms,  cognizances, 
and  crests,  emblazoned  in  their  proper 


Il8  OUR   OLD  HOME 

colors,  and  illuminating  the  ancient  quad 
rangle  with  their  splendor.  One  of  these 
devices  is  a  large  image  of  a  porcupine  on 
an  heraldic  wreath,  being  the  crest  of  the 
Lords  de  Lisle.  But  especially  is  the  cog 
nizance  of  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff  re 
peated  over  and  over,  and  over  again  and 
again,  in  a  great  variety  of  attitudes,  —  at 
fulUlength  and  half-length,  in  paint  and  in 
oaken  sculpture,  in  bas-relief  and  rounded 
image.  The  founder  of  the  hospital  was 
certainly  disposed  to  reckon  his  own  benef 
icence  as  among  the  hereditary  glories  of 
his  race  ;  and  had  he  lived  and  died  a  half- 
century  earlier,  he  would  have  kept  up 
an  old  Catholic  custom,  by  enjoining  the 
twelve  bedesmen  to  pray  for  the  welfare  of 
his  soul. 

At  my  first  visit,  some  of  the  brethren 
were  seated  on  the  bench  outside  of  the 
edifice,  looking  down  into  the  street ;  but 
they  did  not  vouchsafe  me  a  word,  and 
seemed  so  estranged  from  modern  life,  so 
enveloped  in  antique  customs  and  old- 
fashioned  cloaks,  that  to  converse  with 
them  would  have  been  like  shouting  across 
the  gulf  between  our  age  and  Queen  Eliz 
abeth's.  So  I  passed  into  the  quadrangle, 
and  found  it  quite  solitary,  except  that  a 


ABOUT  WARWICK  119 

plain  and  neat  old  woman  happened  to  be 
crossing  it,  with  an  aspect  of  business  and 
carefulness  that  bespoke  her  a  woman  of 
this  world,  and  not  merely  a  shadow  of  the 
past.  Asking  her  if  I  could  come  in,  she 
answered  very  readily  and  civilly  that  I 
might,  and  said  that  I  was  free  to  look 
about  me,  hinting  a  hope,  however,  that  I 
would  not  open  the  private  doors  of  the 
brotherhood,  as  some  visitors  were  in  the 
habit  of  doing.  Under  her  guidance,  I 
went  into  what  was  formerly  the  great  hall 
of  the  establishment,  where  King  James  I. 
had  once  been  feasted  by  an  Earl  of  War 
wick,  as  is  commemorated  by  an  inscription 
on  the  cobwebbed  and  dingy  wall.  It  is  a 
very  spacious  and  barnlike  apartment,  with 
a  brick  floor,  and  a  vaulted  roof,  the  rafters 
of  which  are  oaken  beams,  wonderfully 
carved,  but  hardly  visible  in  the  duskiness 
that  broods  aloft.  The  hall  may  have  made 
a  splendid  appearance,  when  it  was  deco 
rated  with  rich  tapestry,  and  illuminated 
with  chandeliers,  cressets,  and  torches 
glistening  upon  silver  dishes,  where  King 
James  sat  at  supper  among  his  brilliantly 
dressed  nobles ;  but  it  has  come  to  base 
uses  in  these  latter  days,  —  being  improved, 
in  Yankee  phrase,  as  a  brewery  and  wash- 


120  OUR   OLD  HOME 

room,  and  as  a  cellar  for  the  brethren's 
separate  allotments  of  coal. 

The  old  lady  here  left  me  to  myself,  and 
I  returned  into  the  quadrangle.  It  was 
very  quiet,  very  handsome,  in  its  own  ob 
solete  style,  and  must  be  an  exceedingly 
comfortable  place  for  the  old  people  to 
lounge  in,  when  the  inclement  winds  render 
it  inexpedient  to  walk  abroad.  There  are 
shrubs  against  the  wall,  on  one  side ;  and 
on  another  is  a  cloistered  walk,  adorned 
with  stags'  heads  and  antlers,  and  running 
beneath  a  covered  gallery,  up  to  which 
ascends  a  balustraded  staircase.  In  the 
portion  of  the  edifice  opposite  the  entrance- 
arch  are  the  apartments  of  the  Master  ;  and 
looking  into  the  window  (as  the  old  woman, 
at  no  request  of  mine,  had  specially  in 
formed  me  that  I  might),  I  saw  a  low,  but 
vastly  comfortable  parlor,  very  handsomely 
furnished,  and  altogether  a  luxurious  place. 
It  had  a  fireplace  with  an  immense  arch, 
the  antique  breadth  of  which  extended 
almost  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  room,  though 
now  fitted  up  in  such  a  way  that  the  mod 
ern  coal-grate  looked  very  diminutive  in 
the  midst.  Gazing  into  this  pleasant  in 
terior,  it  seemed  to  me  that,  among  these 
venerable  surroundings,  availing  himself  of 


ABOUT'  WAR  WICK  1 2 1 

whatever  was  good  in  former  things,  and 
eking  out  their  imperfection  with  the  re 
sults  of  modern  ingenuity,  the  Master 
might  lead  a  not  unenviable  life.  On  the 
cloistered  side  of  the  quadrangle,  where 
the  dark  oak  panels  made  the  inclosed 
space  dusky,  I  beheld  a  curtained  window 
reddened  by  a  great  blaze  from  within,  and 
heard  the  bubbling  and  squeaking  of  some 
thing —  doubtless  very  nice  and  succulent 
—  that  was  being  cooked  at  the  kitchen 
fire.  I  think,  indeed,  that  a  whiff  or  two  of 
the  savory  fragrance  reached  my  nostrils ; 
at  all  events,  the  impression  grew  upon 
me  that  Leicester's  Hospital  is  one  of  the 
jolliest  old  domiciles  in  England. 
'  I  was  about  to  depart,  when  another  old 
woman,  very  plainly  dressed,  but  fat,  com 
fortable,  and  with  a  cheerful  twinkle  in  her 
eyes,  came  in  through  the  arch,  and  looked 
curiously  at  me.  This  repeated  apparition 
of  the  gentle  sex  (though  by  no  means 
under  its  loveliest  guise)  had  still  an  agree 
able  effect  in  modifying  my  ideas  of  an 
institution  which  I  had  supposed  to  be  of  a 
stern  and  monastic  character.  She  asked 
whether  I  wished  to  see  the  hospital,  and 
said  that  the  porter,  whose  office  it  was  to 
attend  to  visitors,  was  dead,  and  would  be 


122  OUR   OLD  HOME 

buried  that  very  day,  so  that  the  whole 
establishment  could  not  conveniently  be 
shown  me.  She  kindly  invited  me,  how 
ever,  to  visit  the  apartment  occupied  by 
her  husband  and  herself  ;  so  I  followed  her 
up  the  antique  staircase,  along  the  gallery, 
and  into  a  small,  oak-paneled  parlor,  where 
sat  an  old  man  in  a  long  blue  garment,  who 
arose  and  saluted  me  with  much  courtesy. 
He  seemed  a  very  quiet  person,  and  yet 
had  a  look  of  travel  and  adventure,  and 
gray  experience,  such  as  I  could  have 
fancied  in  a  palmer  of  ancient  times,  who 
might  likewise  have  worn  a  similar  cos 
tume.  The  little  room  was  carpeted  and' 
neatly  furnished  ;  a  portrait  of  its  occupant 
was  hanging  on  the  wall ;  and  on  a  table 
were  two  swords  crossed,  —  one,  probably, 
his  own  battle  weapon,  and  the  other,  which 
I  drew  half  out  of  the  scabbard,  had  an 
inscription  on  the  blade,  purporting  that 
it  had  been  taken  from  the  field  of  Water 
loo.  My  kind  old  hostess  was  anxious  to 
exhibit  all  the  particulars  of  their  house 
keeping,  and  led  me  into  the  bedroom, 
which  was  in  the  nicest  order,  with  a  snow- 
white  quilt  upon  the  bed ;  and  in  a  little 
intervening  room  was  a  washing  and 
bathing  apparatus  ;  a  convenience  (judging 


ABOUT  WARWICK  12$ 

from  the  personal  aspect  and  atmosphere 
of  such  parties)  seldom  to  be  met  with  in 
the  humbler  ranks  of  British  life. 

The  old  soldier  and  his  wife  both  seemed 
glad  of  somebody  to  talk  with ;  but  the 
good  woman  availed  herself  of  the  privilege 
far  more  copiously  than  the  veteran  him 
self,  insomuch  that  he  felt  it  expedient  to 
give  her  an  occasional  nudge  with  his  el 
bow  in  her  well-padded  ribs.  "  Don't  you 
be  so  talkative !  "  quoth  he ;  and,  indeed, 
he  could  hardly  find  space  for  a  word,  and 
quite  as  little  after  his  admonition  as  be 
fore.  Her  nimble  tongue  ran  over  the 
whole  system  of  life  in  the  hospital.  The 
brethren,  she  said,  had  a  yearly  stipend 
(the  amount  of  which  she  did  not  mention), 
and  such  decent  lodgings  as  I  saw,  and 
some  other  advantages,  free ;  and,  instead 
of  being  pestered  with  a  great  many  rules, 
and  made  to  dine  together  at  a  great  table, 
they  could  manage  their  little  household 
matters  as  they  liked,  buying  their  own 
dinners,  and  having  them  cooked  in  the 
general  kitchen,  and  eating  them  snugly  in 
their  own  parlors.  "  And,"  added  she, 
rightly  deeming  this  the  crowning  privilege, 
"with  the  Master's  permission,  they  can 
have  their  wives  to  take  care  of  them  ;  and 


124  OUR    OLD   HOME 

no  harm  comes  of  it ;  and  what  more  can 
an  old  man  desire  ?  "  It  was  evident  enough 
that  the  good  dame  found  herself  in  what 
she  considered  very  rich  clover,  and,  more 
over,  had  plenty  of  small  occupations  to 
keep  her  from  getting  rusty  and  dull ;  but 
the  veteran  impressed  me  as  deriving  far 
less  enjoyment  from  the  monotonous  ease, 
without  fear  of  change  or  hope  of  improve 
ment,  that  had  followed  upon  thirty  years 
of  peril  and  vicissitude.  I  fancied,  too, 
that,  while  pleased  with  the  novelty  of  a 
stranger's  visit,  he  was  still  a  little  shy  of 
becoming  a  spectacle  for  the  stranger's 
curiosity ;  for,  if  he  chose  to  be  morbid 
about  the  matter,  the  establishment  was 
but  an  almshouse,  in  spite  of  its  old- 
fashioned  magnificence,  and  his  fine  blue 
cloak  only  a  pauper's  garment  with  a  silver 
badge  on  it  that  perhaps  galled,  his  shoulder. 
In  truth,  the  badge  and  the  peculiar  garb, 
though  quite  in  accordance  with  the  man 
ners  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  age,  are 
repugnant  to  modern  prejudices,  and  might 
fitly  and  humanely  be  abolished. 

A  year  or  two  afterwards  I  paid  another 
visit  to  the  hospital,  and  found  a  new 
porter  established  in  office,  and  already  ca 
pable  of  talking  like  a  guide-book  about 


ABOUT   WARWICK  12$ 

the  history,  antiquities,  and  present  con 
dition  of  the  charity.  He  informed  me 
that  the  twelve  brethren  are  selected  from 
among  old  soldiers  of  good  character, 
whose  other  resources  must  not  exceed  an 
income  of  five  pounds ;  thus  excluding 
all  commissioned  officers,  whose  half-pay 
would  of  course  be  more  than  that  amount. 
They  receive  from  the  hospital  an  annuity 
of  eighty  pounds  each,  besides  their  apart 
ments,  a  garment  of  fine  blue  cloth,  an 
annual  abundance  of  ale,  and  a  privilege 
at  the  kitchen  fire ;  so  that,  considering 
the  class  from  which  they  are  taken,  they 
may  well  reckon  themselves  among  the 
fortunate  of  the  earth.  Furthermore,  they 
are  invested  with  political  rights,  acquiring 
a  vote  for  member  of  Parliament  in  virtue 
either  of  their  income  or  brotherhood.  On 
the  other  hand,  as  regards  their  personal 
freedom  or  conduct,  they  are  subject  to  a 
supervision  which  the  Master  of  the  hospi 
tal  might  render  extremely  annoying,  were 
he  so  inclined ;  but  the  military  restraint 
under  which  they  have  spent  the  active 
portion  of  their  lives  makes  it  easier  for 
them  to  endure  the  domestic  discipline 
here  imposed  upon  their  age.  The  porter 
bore  his  testimony  (whatever  were  its 


126  OUR   OLD  HOME 

value)  to  their  being  as  contented  and 
happy  as  such  a  set  of  old  people  could 
possibly  be,  and  affirmed  that  they  spent 
much  time  in  burnishing  their  silver- 
badges,  and  were  as  proud  of  them  as  a 
nobleman  of  his  star.  These  badges,  by 
the  by,  except  one  that  was  stolen  and  re 
placed  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  are  the  very 
same  that  decorated  the  original  twelve 
brethren. 

I  have  seldom  met  with  a  better  guide 
than  my  friend  the  porter.  He  appeared 
to  .take  a  genuine  interest  in  the  peculiari 
ties  of  the  establishment,  and  yet  had  an 
existence  apart  from  them,  so  that  he  could 
the  better  estimate  what  those  peculiarities 
were.  To  be  sure,  his  knowledge  and  ob 
servation  were  confined  to  external  things, 
but,  so  far,  had  a  sufficiently  extensive 
scope.  He  led  me  up  the  staircase  and  ex 
hibited  portions  of  the  timber  framework 
of  the  edifice  that  are  reckoned  to  be  eight 
or  nine  hundred  years  old,  and  are  still 
neither  worm-eaten  nor  decayed ;  and 
traced  out  what  had  been  a  great  hall  in 
the  days  of  the  Catholic  fraternity,  though 
its  area  is  now  filled  up  with  the  apart 
ments  of  the  twelve  brethren  ;  and  pointed 
to  ornaments  of  sculptured  oak,  done  in  an 


ABOUT  WARWICK  I2/ 

ancient  religious  style  of  art,  but  hardly 
visible  amid  the  vaulted  dimness  of  the 
roof.  Thence  we  went  to  the  chapel  — 
the  Gothic  church  which  I  noted  several 
pages  back  —  surmounting  the  gateway 
that  stretches  half  across  the  street.  Here 
the  brethren  attend  daily  prayer,  and  have 
each  a  prayer-book  of  the  finest  paper, 
with  a  fair,  large  type  for  their  old  eyes. 
The  interior  of  the  chapel  is  very  plain, 
with  a  picture  of  no  merit  for  an  altar- 
piece,  and  a  single  old  pane  of  painted  glass 
in  the  great  eastern  window,  represent 
ing,  —  no  saint,  nor  angel,  as  is  customary 
in  such  cases,  —  but  that  grim  sinner,  the 
Earl  of  Leicester.  Nevertheless,  amid  so 
many  tangible  proofs  of  his  human  sympa 
thy,  one  comes  to  doubt  whether  the  Earl 
could  have  been  such  a  hardened  reprobate, 
after  all. 

We  ascended  the  tower  of  the  chapel, 
and  looked  down  between  its  battlements 
into  the  street,  a  hundred  feet  below  us  ; 
while  clambering  halfway  up  were  foxglove 
flowers,  weeds,  small  shrubs,  and  tufts  of 
grass,  that  had  rooted  themselves  into  the 
roughnesses  of  the  stone  foundation.  Far 
around  us  lay  a  rich  and  lovely  English 
landscape,  with  many  a  church-spire  and 


128  OUR   OLD  HOME 

noble  country-seat,  and  several  objects  of 
high  historic  interest.  Edge  Hill,  where 
the  Puritans  defeated  Charles  L,  is  in  sight 
on  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  much 
nearer  stands  the  house  where  Cromwell 
lodged  on  the  night  before  the  battle. 
Right  under  our  eyes,  and  half  enveloping 
the  town  with  its  high-shouldering  wall, 
so  that  all  the  closely  compacted  streets 
seemed  but  a  precinct  of  the  estate,  was 
the  Earl  of  Warwick's  delightful  park,  a 
wide  extent  of  sunny  lawns,  interspersed 
with  broad  contiguities  of  forest  shade. 
Some  of  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  were 
there,  —  a  growth  of  trees  in  which  the 
Warwick  family  take  an  hereditary  pride. 
The  two  highest  towers  of  the  castle 
heave  themselves  up  out  of  a  mass  of  foliage, 
and  look  down  in  a  lordly  manner  upon  the 
plebeian  roofs  of  the  town,  a  part  of  which  are 
slate-covered  (these  are  the  modern  houses), 
and  a  part  are  coated  with  old  red  tiles, 
denoting  the  more  ancient  edifices.  A 
hundred  and  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  a 
great  fire  destroyed  a  considerable  portion 
of  the  town,  and  doubtless  annihilated  many 
structures  of  a  remote  antiquity  ;  at  least, 
there  was  a  possibility  of  very  old  houses 
in  the  long  past  of  Warwick,  which  King 


ABOUT  WARWICK  129 

Cymbeline  is  said  to  have  founded  in  the 
year  ONE  of  the  Christian  era ! 

And  this  historic  fact  or  poetic  fiction, 
whichever  it  may  be,  brings  to  mind  a  more 
indestructible  reality  than  anything  else 
that  has  occurred  within  the  present  field 
of  our  vision ;  though  this  includes  the 
scene  of  Guy  of  Warwick's  legendary  ex 
ploits,  and  some  of  those  of  the  Round 
Table,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Battle  of  Edge 
Hill.  For  perhaps  it  was  in  the  landscape 
now  under  our  eyes  that  Posthumus  wan 
dered  with  the  King's  daughter,  the  sweet, 
chaste,  faithful,  and  courageous  Imogen, 
the  tenderest  and  womanliest  woman  that 
Shakespeare  ever  made  immortal  in  the 
world.  The  silver  Avon,  which  we  see 
flowing  so  quietly  by  the  gray  castle,  may 
have  held  their  images  in  its  bosom. 

The  day,  though  it  began  brightly,  had 
long  been  overcast,  and  the  clouds  now 
spat  down  a  few  spiteful  drops  upon  us  ; 
besides  that,  the  east  wind  was  very  chill ; 
so  we  descended  the  winding  tower-stair, 
and  went  next  into  the  garden,  one  side  of 
which  is  shut  in  by  almost  the  only  remain 
ing  portion  of  the  old  city-wall.  A  part  of 
the  garden-ground  is  devoted  to  grass  and 
shrubbery,  and  permeated  by  gravel-walks, 


130  OUR   OLD   HOME 

in  the  centre  of  one  of  which  is  a  beautiful 
stone  vase  of  Egyptian  sculpture,  that  for 
merly  stood  on  the  top  of  a  Nilometer,  or 
graduated  pillar  for  measuring  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  river  Nile.  On  the  pedestal  is 
a  Latin  inscription  by  Dr.  Parr,  who  (his 
vicarage  of  Hatton  being  so  close  at  hand) 
was  probably  often  the  Master's  guest,  and 
smoked  his  interminable  pipe  along  these 
garden  -  walks.  Of  the  vegetable  -  garden, 
which  lies  adjacent,  the  lion's  share  is  ap 
propriated  to  the  Master,  and  twelve  small, 
separate  patches  to  the  individual  brethren, 
who  cultivate  them  at  their  own  judgment 
and  by  their  own  labor ;  and  their  beans 
and  cauliflowers  have  a  better  flavor,  I 
doubt  not,  than  if  they  had  received  them 
directly  from  the  dead  hand  of  the  Earl  of 
Leicester,  like  the  rest  of  their  food.  In 
the  farther  part  of  the  garden  is  an  arbor 
for  the  old  men's  pleasure  and  convenience, 
and  I  should  like  well  to  sit  down  among 
them  there,  and  find  out  what  is  really  the 
bitter  and  the  sweet  of  such  a  sort  of  life. 
As  for  the  old  gentlemen  themselves,  they 
put  me  queerly  in  mind  of  the  Salem  Cus 
tom  House,  and  the  venerable  personages 
whom  I  found  so  quietly  at  anchor  there. 
The  Master's  residence,  forming  one  en- 


ABOUT  WARWICK  131 

tire  side  of  the  quadrangle,  fronts  on  the 
garden,  and  wears  an  aspect  at  once  stately 
and  homely.  It  can  hardly  have  undergone 
any  perceptible  change  within  three  centu 
ries  ;  but  the  garden,  into  which  its  old 
windows  look,  has  probably  put  off  a  great 
many  eccentricities  and  quaintnesses,  in 
the  way  of  cunningly  clipped  shrubbery, 
since  the  gardener  of  Queen  Elizabeth's 
reign  threw  down  his  rusty  shears  and  took 
his  departure.  The  present  Master's  name 
is  Harris  ;  he  is  a  descendant  of  the  found 
er's  family,  a  gentleman  of  independent 
fortune,  and  a  clergyman  of  the  Established 
Church,  as  the  regulations  of  the  hospital 
require  him  to  be.  I  know  not  what  are 
his  official  emoluments  ;  but,  according  to 
all  English  precedent,  an  ancient  charitable 
fund  is  certain  to  be  held  directly  for  the 
behoof  of  those  who  administer  it,  and  per 
haps  incidentally,  in  a  moderate  way,  for 
the  nominal  beneficiaries  ;  and,  in  the  case 
before  us,  the  twelve  brethren  being  so 
comfortably  provided  for,  the  Master  is 
likely  to  be  at  least  as  comfortable  as  all 
the  twelve  together.  Yet  I  ought  not, 
even  in  a  distant  land,  to  fling  an  idle  gibe 
against  a  gentleman  of  whom  I  really  know 
nothing,  except  that  the  people  under  his 


132  OUR    OLD   HOME 

charge  bear  all  possible  tokens  of  being 
tended  and  cared  for  as  sedulously  as  if 
each  of  them  sat  by  a  warm  fireside  of  his 
own,  with  a  daughter  bustling  round  the 
hearth  to  make  ready  his  porridge  and  his 
titbits.  It  is  delightful  to  think  of  the  good 
life  which  a  suitable  man,  in  the  Master's 
position,  has  an  opportunity  to  lead,  — 
linked  to  time-honored  customs,  welded  in 
with  an  ancient  system,  never  dreaming  of 
radical  change,  and  bringing  all  the  mel 
lowness  and  richness  of  the  past  down  into 
these  railway  days,  which  do  not  compel 
him  or  his  community  to  move  a  whit 
quicker  than  of  yore.  Everybody  can  ap 
preciate  the  advantages  of  going  ahead  ;  it 
might  be  well,  sometimes,  to  think  whether 
there  is  not  a  word  or  two  to  be  said  in 
favor  of  standing  still  or  going  to  sleep. 

From  the  garden  we  went  into  the  kitch 
en,  where  the  fire  was  burning  hospitably, 
and  diffused  a  genial  warmth  far  and  wide, 
together  with  the  fragrance  of  some  old 
English  roast-beef,  which,  I  think,  must  at 
that  moment  have  been  done  nearly  to  a 
turn.  The  kitchen  is  a  lofty,  spacious,  and 
noble  room,  partitioned  off  round  the  fire 
place,  by  a  sort  of  semi-circular  oaken 
screen,  or  rather,  an  arrangement  of  heavy 


ABOUT   WARWICK  133 

and  high-backed  settles,  with  an  ever-open 
entrance  between  them,  on  either  side  of 
which  is  the  omnipresent  image  of  the  Bear 
and  Ragged  Staff,  three  feet  high,  and  ex 
cellently  carved  in  oak,  now  black  with 
time  and  unctuous  kitchen  smoke.  The 
ponderous  mantel-piece,  likewise  of  carved 
oak,  towers  high  towards  the  dusky  ceiling, 
and  extends  its  mighty  breadth  to  take  in 
a  vast  area  of  hearth,  the  arch  of  the  fire 
place  being  positively  so  immense  that  I 
could  compare  it  to  nothing  but  the  city 
gateway.  Above  its  cavernous  opening 
were  crossed  two  ancient  halberds,  the 
weapons,  possibly,  of  soldiers  who  had 
fought  under  Leicester  in  the  Low  Coun 
tries  ;  and  elsewhere  on  the  walls  were 
displayed  several  muskets,  which  some  of 
the  present  inmates  of  the  hospital  may 
have  leveled  against  the  French.  Another 
ornament  of  the  mantel-piece  was  a  square 
of  silken  needlework  or  embroidery,  faded 
nearly  white,  but  dimly  representing  that 
wearisome  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff,  which 
we  should  hardly  look  twice  at,  only  that  it 
was  wrought  by  the  fair  fingers  of  poor 
Amy  Robsart,  and  beautifully  framed  in 
oak  from  Kenilworth  Castle,  at  the  expense 
of  a  Mr.  Conner,  a  countryman  of  our  own. 


134  OUR   OLD   HOME 

Certainly,  no  Englishman  would  be  capable 
of  this  little  bit  of  enthusiasm.  Finally, 
the  kitchen  firelight  glistens  on  a  splendid 
display  of  copper  flagons,  all  of  generous 
capacity,  and  one  of  them  about  as  big  as 
a  half-barrel ;  the  smaller  vessels  contain 
the  customary  allowance  of  ale,  and  the 
larger  one  is  filled  with  that  foaming  liquor 
on  four  festive  occasions  of  the  year,  and 
emptied  amain  by  the  jolly  brotherhood. 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  them  do  it ;  but  it 
would  be  an  exploit  fitter  for  Queen  Eliza 
beth's  age  than  these  degenerate  times. 

The  kitchen  is  the  social  hall  of  the 
twelve  brethren.  In  the  daytime,  they 
bring  their  little  messes  to  be  cooked  here, 
and  eat  them  in  their  own  parlors ;  but 
after  a  certain  hour,  the  great  hearth  is 
cleared  and  swept,  and  the  old  men  as 
semble  round  its  blaze,  each  with  his  tank 
ard  and  his  pipe,  and  hold  high  converse 
through  the  evening.  If  the  Master  be  a 
fit  man  for  his  office,  methinks  he  will 
sometimes  sit  down  sociably  among  them  ; 
for  there  is  an  elbow-chair  by  the  fireside 
which  it  would  not  demean  his  dignity  to 
fill,  since  it  was  occupied  by  King  James  at 
the  great  festival  of  nearly  three  centuries 
ago.  A  sip  of  the  ale  and  a  whiff  of  the 


ABOUT   WARWICK  135 

tobacco-pipe  would  put  him  in  friendly  re 
lations  with  his  venerable  household  ;  and 
then  we  can  fancy  him  instructing  them 
by  pithy  apothegms  and  religious  texts, 
which  were  first  uttered  here  by  some 
Catholic  priest  and  have  impregnated  the 
atmosphere  ever  since.  If  a  joke  goes 
round,  it  shall  be  of  an  elder  coinage  than 
Joe  Miller's,  as  old  as  Lord  Bacon's  collec 
tion,  or  as  the  jest-book  that  Master  Slender 
asked  for  when  he  lacked  small-talk  for 
sweet  Anne  Page.  No  news  shall  be  spoken 
of,  later  than  the  drifting  ashore,  on  the 
northern  coast,  of  some  stern-post  or  fig 
urehead,  a  barnacled  fragment  of  one  of 
the  great  galleons  of  the  Spanish  Armada. 
What  a  tremor  would  pass  through  the 
antique  group,  if  a  damp  newspaper  should 
suddenly  be  spread  to  dry  before  the  fire ! 
They  would  feel  as  if  either  that  printed 
sheet  or  they  themselves  must  be  an  un 
reality.  What  a  mysterious  awe,  if  the 
shriek  of  the  railway  train,  as  it  reaches 
the  Warwick  station,  should  ever  so  faintly 
invade  their  ears  !  Movement  of  any  kind 
seems  inconsistent  with  the  stability  of 
such  an  institution.  Nevertheless,  I  trust 
that  the  ages  will  carry  it  along  with  them  ; 
because  it  is  such  a  pleasant  kind  of  dream 


136  OUR   OLD  HOME 

for  an  American  to  find  his  way  thither, 
and  behold  a  piece  of  the  sixteenth  century 
set  into  our  prosaic  times,  and  then  to  de 
part,  and  think  of  its  arched  doorway  as  a 
spell-guarded  entrance  which  will  never  be 
accessible  or  visible  to  him  any  more. 

Not  far  from  the  market-place  of  War 
wick  stands  the  great  church  of  St.  Mary's  : 
a  vast  edifice,  indeed,  and  almost  worthy 
to  be  a  cathedral.  People  who  pretend  to 
skill  in  such  matters  say  that  it  is  in  a  poor 
style  of  architecture,  though  designed  (or, 
at  least,  extensively  restored)  by  Sir  Chris 
topher  Wren  ;  but  I  thought  it  very  strik 
ing,  with  its  wide,  high,  and  elaborate 
windows,  its  tall  towers,  its  immense  length, 
and  (for  it  was  long  before  I  outgrew  this 
Americanism,  the  love  of  an  old  thing 
merely  for  the  sake  of  its  age)  the  tinge  of 
gray  antiquity  over  the  whole.  Once,  while 
I  stood  gazing  up  at  the  tower,  the  clock 
struck  twelve  with  a  very  deep  intonation, 
and  immediately  some  chimes  began  to 
play,  and  kept  up  their  resounding  music 
for  five  minutes,  as  measured  by  the  hand 
upon  the  dial.  It  was  a  very  delightful 
harmony,  as  airy  as  the  notes  of  birds,  and 
seemed  a  not  unbecoming  freak  of  half- 
sportive  fancy  in  the  huge,  ancient,  and 


ABOUT   WARWICK  137 

solemn  church  ;  although  I  have  seen  an 
old-fashioned  parlor  clock  that  did  precisely 
the  same  thing,  in  its  small  way. 

The  great  attraction  of  this  edifice  is  the 
Beauchamp  (or,  as  the  English,  who  delight 
in  vulgarizing  their  fine  old  Norman  names, 
call  it,  the  Beechum)  Chapel,  where  the 
Earls  of  Warwick  and  their  kindred  have 
been  buried,  from  four  hundred  years  back 
till  within  a  recent  period.  It  is  a  stately 
and  very  elaborate  chapel,  with  a  large  win 
dow  of  ancient  painted  glass,  as  perfectly 
preserved  as  any  that  I  remember  seeing 
in  England,  and  remarkably  vivid  in  its 
colors.  Here  are  several  monuments  with 
marble  figures  recumbent  upon  them,  repre 
senting  the  earls  in  their  knightly  armor, 
and  their  dames  in  the  ruffs  and  court- 
finery  of  their  day,  looking  hardly  stiffer 
in  stone  than  they. must  needs  have  been 
in  their  starched  linen  and  embroidery. 
The  renowned  Earl  of  Leicester  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  time,  the  benefactor  of  the 
hospital,  reclines  at  full  length  on  the  tab 
let  of  one  of  these  tombs,  side  by  side  with 
his  Countess,  —  not  Amy  Robsart,  but  a 
lady  who  (unless  I  have  confused  the  story 
with  some  other  mouldy  scandal)  is  said 
to  have  avenged  poor  Amy's  murder  by 


138  OUR   OLD  HOME 

poisoning  the  Earl  himself.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  both  figures,  and  especially  the  Earl, 
look  like  the  very  types  of  ancient  Honor 
and  Conjugal  Faith.  In  consideration  of 
his  long-enduring  kindness  to  the  twelve 
brethren,  I  cannot  consent  to  believe  him 
as  wicked  as  he  is  usually  depicted  ;  and  it 
seems  a  marvel,  now  that  so  many  well- 
established  historical  verdicts  have  been 
reversed,  why  some  enterprising  writer 
does  not  make  out  Leicester  to  have  been 
the  pattern  nobleman  of  his  age. 

In  the  centre  of  the  chapel  is  the  mag 
nificent  memorial  of  its  founder,  Richard 
Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick  in  the  time 
of  Henry  VI.  On  a  richly  ornamented 
altar-tomb  of  gray  marble  lies  the  bronze 
figure  of  a  knight  in  gilded  armor,  most 
admirably  executed  :  for  the  sculptors  of 
those  days  had  wonderful  skill  in  their  own 
style,  and  could  make  so  lifelike  an  image 
of  a  warrior,  in  brass  or  marble,  that,  if  a 
trumpet  were  sounded  over  his  tomb,  you 
would  expect  him  to  start  up  and  handle 
his  sword.  The  Earl  whom  we  now  speak 
of,  however,  has  slept  soundly  in  spite  of  a 
more  serious  disturbance  than  any  blast  of 
a  trumpet,  unless  it  were  the  final  one. 
Some  centuries  after  his  death,  the  floor  of 


ABOUT  WARWICK  139 

the  chapel  fell  down  and  broke  open  the 
stone  coffin  in  which  he  was  buried  ;  and 
among  the  fragments  appeared  the  an 
ciently  entombed  Earl  of  Warwick,  with 
the  color  scarcely  faded  out  of  his  cheeks, 
his  eyes  a  little  sunken,  but  in  other  re 
spects  looking  as  natural  as  if  he  had  died 
yesterday.  But  exposure  to  the  atmos 
phere  appeared  to  begin  and  finish  the 
long-delayed  process  of  decay  in  a  moment, 
causing  him  to  vanish  like  a  bubble;  so 
that,  almost  before  there  had  been  time  to 
wonder  at  him,  there  was  nothing  left  of 
the  stalwart  Earl  save  his  hair.  This  sole 
relic  the  ladies  of  Warwick  made  prize  of, 
and  braided  it  into  rings  and  brooches  for 
their  own  adornment  ;  and  thus,  with  a 
chapel  and  a  ponderous  tomb  built  on  pur 
pose  to  protect  his  remains,  this  great 
nobleman  could  not  help  being  brought 
untimely  to  the  light  of  day,  nor  even  keep 
his  lovelocks  on  his  skull  after  he  had  so 
long  done  with  love.  There  seems  to  be  a 
fatality  that  disturbs  people  in  their  sep 
ulchres,  when  they  have  been  over-careful 
to  render  them  magnificent  and  impreg 
nable,  —  as  witness  the  builders  of  the 
Pyramids,  and  Hadrian,  Augustus,  and  the 
Scipios,  and  most  other  personages  whose 


140  OUR   OLD  HOME 

mausoleums  have  been  conspicuous  enough 
to  attract  the  violator ;  and  as  for  dead 
men's  hair,  I  have  seen  a  lock  of  King 
Edward  the  Fourth's,  of  a  reddish-brown 
color,  which  perhaps  was  once  twisted 
round  the  delicate  forefinger  of  Mistress 
Shore. 

The  direct  lineage  of  the  renowned  char 
acters  that  lie  buried  in  this  splendid  chapel 
has  long  been  extinct.  The  earldom  is 
now  held  by  the  Grevilles,  descendants  of 
the  Lord  Brooke  who  was  slain  in  the  Parlia 
mentary  War  ;  and  they  have  recently  (that 
is  to  say,  within  a  century)  built  a  burial- 
vault  on  the  other  side  of  the  church,  cal 
culated  (as  the  sexton  assured  me,  with  a 
nod  as  if  he  were  pleased)  to  afford  suitable 
and  respectful  accommodation  to  as  many 
as  fourscore  coffins.  Thank  Heaven,  the 
old  man  did  not  call  them  "  CASKETS  "  !  — 
a  vile  modern  phrase,  which  compels  a 
person  of  sense  and  good  taste  to  shrink 
more  disgustfully  than  ever  before  from 
the  idea  of  being  buried  at  all.  But  as  re 
gards  those  eighty  coffins,  only  sixteen 
have  as  yet  been  contributed ;  and  it  may 
be  a  question  with  some  minds,  not  merely 
whether  the  Grevilles  will  hold  the  earldom 
of  Warwick  until  the  full  number  shall  be 


ABOUT  WARWICK  141 

made  up,  but  whether  earldoms  and  all 
manner  of  lordships  will  not  have  faded  out 
of  England  long  before  those  many  gen 
erations  shall  have  passed  from  the  castle 
to  the  vault.  I  hope  not.  A  titled  and 
landed  aristocracy,  if  anywise  an  evil  and 
an  encumbrance,  is  so  only  to  the  nation 
which  is  doomed  to  bear  it  on  its  shoulders  ; 
and  an  American,  whose  sole  relation  to  it 
is  to  admire  its  picturesque  effect  upon  so 
ciety,  ought  to  be  the  last  man  to  quarrel 
with  what  affords  him  so  much  gratuitous 
enjoyment.  Nevertheless,  conservative  as 
England  is,  and  though  I  scarce  ever  found 
an  Englishman  who  seemed  really  to  desire 
change,  there  was  continually  a  dull  sound 
in  my  ears  as  if  the  old  foundations  of 
things  were  crumbling  away.  Some  time 
or  other,  —  by  no  irreverent  effort  of  vio 
lence,  but,  rather,  in  spite  of  all  pious 
efforts  to  uphold  a  heterogeneous  pile  of 
institutions  that  will  have  outlasted  their 
vitality,  —  at  some  unexpected  moment, 
there  must  come  a  terrible  crash.  The 
sole  reason  why  I  should  desire  it  to  happen 
in  my  day  is,  that  I  might  be  there  to  see ! 
But  the  ruin  of  my  own  country  is,  per 
haps,  all  that  I  am  destined  to  witness ; 
and  that  immense  catastrophe  (though  I 


142  OUR   OLD  HOME 

am  strong  in  the  faith  that  there  is  a 
national  lifetime  of  a  thousand  years  in  us 
yet)  would  serve  any  man  well  enough  as 
his  final  spectacle  on  earth. 

If  the  visitor  is  inclined  to  carry  away 
any  little  memorial  of  Warwick,  he  had 
better  go  to  an  Old  Curiosity  Shop  in  the 
High  Street,  where  there  is  a  vast  quantity 
of  obsolete  gewgaws,  great  and  small,  and 
many  of  them  so  pretty  and  ingenious  that 
you  wonder  how  they  came  to  be  thrown 
aside  and  forgotten.  As  regards  its  minor 
tastes,  the  world  changes,  but  does  not 
improve ;  it  appears  to  me,  indeed,  that 
there  have  been  epochs  of  far  more  exqui 
site  fancy  than  the  present  one,  in  matters 
of  personal  ornament,  and  such  delicate 
trifles  as  we  put  upon  a  drawing-room 
table,  a  mantel-piece,  or  a  whatnot.  The 
shop  in  question  is  near  the  East  Gate,  but 
is  hardly  to  be  found  without  careful 
search,  being  denoted  only  by  the  name 
of  "  REDFERN,"  painted  not  very  conspic 
uously  in  the  top-light  of  the  door.  Im 
mediately  on  entering,  we  find  ourselves 
among  a  confusion  of  old  rubbish  and  valu 
ables,  ancient  armor,  historic  portraits, 
ebony  cabinets  inlaid  with  pearl,  tall, 
ghostly  clocks,  hideous  old  china,  dim  look- 


ABOUT  WARWICK  143 

ing-glasses  in  frames  of  tarnished  magnifi 
cence, —  a  thousand  objects  of  strange  as 
pect,  and  others  that  almost  frighten  you 
by  their  likeness  in  unlikeness  to  things 
now  in  use.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  variety  of  articles,  so  thickly 
strewn  about  that  we  can  scarcely  move 
without  overthrowing  some  great  curiosity 
with  a  crash,  or  sweeping  away  some  small 
one  hitched  to  our  sleeves.  Three  stories 
of  the  entire  house  are  crowded  in  like 
manner.  The  collection,  even  as  we  see  it 
exposed  to  view,  must  have  been  got  to 
gether  at  great  cost  ;  but  the  real  treasures 
of  the  establishment  lie  in  secret  reposi 
tories,  whence  they  are  not  likely  to  be 
drawn  forth  at  an  ordinary  summons ; 
though,  if  a  gentleman  with  a  competently 
long  purse  should  call  for  them,  I  doubt 
not  that  the  signet-ring  of  Joseph's  friend 
Pharaoh,  or  the  Duke  of  Alva's  leading 
staff,  or  the  dagger  that  killed  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  (all  of  which  I  have  seen),  or 
any  other  almost  incredible  thing,  might 
make  its  appearance.  Gold  snuff-boxes, 
antique  gems,  jeweled  goblets,  Venetian 
wine-glasses  (which  burst  when  poison  is 
poured  into  them,  and  therefore  must  not 
be  used  for  modern  wine  drinking),  jasper- 


144  OUR   OLD 

handled  knives,  painted  Sevres  teacups,  — 
in  short,  there  are  all  sorts  of  things  that  a 
virtuoso  ransacks  the  world  to  discover. 

It  would  be  easier  to  spend  a  hundred 
pounds  in  Mr.  Redfern's  shop  than  to  keep 
the  money  in  one's  pocket ;  but,  for  my 
part,  I  contented  myself  with  buying  a 
little  old  spoon  of  silver-gilt,  and  fantasti 
cally  shaped,  and  got  it  at  all  the  more  rea 
sonable  rate  because  there  happened  to  be 
no  legend  attached  to  it.  I  could  supply 
any  deficiency  of  that  kind  at  much  less 
expense  than  regilding  the  spoon  ! 


IV. 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF   A   GIFTED 
WOMAN 

FROM  Leamington  to  Stratford-on-Avon 
the  distance  is  eight  or  nine  miles,  over  a 
road  that  seemed  to  me  most  beautiful. 
Not  that  I  can  recall  any  memorable  pecu 
liarities  ;  for  the  country,  most  of  the 
way,  is  a  succession  of  the  gentlest  swells 
and  subsidences,  affording  wide  and  far 
glimpses  of  champaign  scenery  here  and 
there,  and  sinking  almost  to  a  dead  level 
as  we  draw  near  Stratford.  Any  landscape 
in  New  England,  even  the  tamest,  has  a 
more  striking  outline,  and,  besides,  would 
have  its  blue  eyes  open  in  those  lakelets 
that  we  encounter  almost  from  mile  to  mile 
at  home,  but  of  which  the  Old  Country  is 
utterly  destitute ;  or  it  would  smile  in  our 
faces  through  the  medium  of  the  wayside 
brooks  that  vanish  under  a  low  stone  arch 
on  one  side  of  the  road,  and  sparkle  out 
again  on  the  other.  Neither  of  these  pretty 


146  OUR   OLD   HOME 

features  is  often  to  be  found  in  an  English 
scene.  The  charm  of  the  latter  consists 
in  the  rich  verdure  of  the  fields,  in  the 
stately  wayside  trees  and  carefully  kept 
plantations  of  wood,  and  in  the  old  and 
high  cultivation  that  has  humanized  the 
very  sods  by  mingling  so  much  of  man's 
toil  and  care  among  them.  To  an  Amer 
ican  there  is  a  kind  of  sanctity  even  in  an 
English  turnip-field,  when  he  thinks  how 
long  that  small  square  of  ground  has  been 
known  and  recognized  as  a  possession, 
transmitted  from  father  to  son,  trodden 
often  by  memorable  feet,  and  utterly  re 
deemed  from  savagery  by  old  acquaintance 
ship  with  civilized  eyes.1 

The  wildest  things  in  England  are  more 
than  half  tame.  The  trees,  for  instance, 

1  All  the  scenery  we  have  yet  met  with  is  in  excellent 
taste,  and  keeps  itself  within  very  proper  bounds,  — 
never  getting  too  wild  and  rugged  to  shock  the  sensi 
bilities  of  cultivated  people,  as  American  scenery  is  apt 
to  do.  On  the  rudest  surface  of  English  earth,  there  is 
seen  the  effect  of  centuries  of  civilization,  so  that  you 
do  not  quite  get  at  naked  Nature  anywhere.  And  then 
every  point  of  beauty  is  so  well  known,  and  has  been 
described  so  much,  that  one  must  needs  look  through 
other  people's  eyes,  and  feels  as  if  he  were  seeing  a 
picture  rather  than  a  reality.  Man  has,  in  short,  entire 
possession  of  Nature  here,  and  I  should  think  young 
men  might  sometimes  yearn  for  a  fresher  draught.  But 
an  American  likes  it.  —  II.  8. 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  147 

whether  in  hedge-row,  park,  or  what  they 
call  forest,  have  nothing  wild  about  them. 
They  are  never  ragged  ;  there  is  a  certain 
decorous  restraint  in  the  freest  outspread 
of  their  branches,  though  they  spread  wider 
than  any  self-nurturing  trees  ;  they  are  tall, 
vigorous,  bulky,  with  a  look  of  age-long  life, 
and  a  promise  of  more  years  to  come,  all 
of  which  will  bring  them  into  closer  kin 
dred  with  the  race  of  man.  Somebody  or 
other  has  known  them  from  the  sapling 
upward ;  and  if  they  endure  long  enough, 
they  grow  to  be  traditionally  observed 
and  honored,  and  connected  with  the  for 
tunes  of  old  families,  till,  like  Tennyson's 
Talking  Oak,  they  babble  with  a  thousand 
leafy  tongues  to  ears  that  can  understand 
them. 

An  American  tree,  however,  if  it  could 
grow  in  fair  competition  with  an  English 
one  of  similar  species,  would  probably  be 
the  more  picturesque  object  of  the  two. 
The  Warwickshire  elm  has  not  so  beauti 
ful  a  shape  as  those  that  overhang  our 
village  street ;  and  as  for  the  redoubtable 
English  oak,  there  is  a  certain  John  Bull- 
ism  in  its  figure,  a  compact  rotundity  of 
foliage,  a  lack  of  irregular  and  various  out 
line,  that  make  it  look  wonderfully  like  a 


148  OUR  OLD  HOME 

gigantic  cauliflower.1  Its  leaf,  too,  is  much 
smaller  than  that  of  most  varieties  of  Amer 
ican  oak ;  nor  do  I  mean  to  doubt  that  the 
latter,  with  free  leave  to  grow,  reverent 
care  and  cultivation,  and  immunity  from 
the  axe,  would  live  out  its  centuries  as 
sturdily  as  its  English  brother,  and  prove 
far  the  nobler  and  more  majestic  specimen 
of  a  tree  at  the  end  of  them.  Still,  how 
ever  one's  Yankee  patriotism  may  struggle 
against  the  admission,  it  must  be  owned 
that  the  trees  and  other  objects  of  an  Eng 
lish  landscape  take  hold  of  the  observer  by 
numberless  minute  tendrils,  as  it  were, 
which,  look  as  closely  as  we  choose,  we 
never  find  in  an  American  scene.  The 
parasitic  growth  is  so  luxuriant,  that  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  so  gray  and  dry  in  our 
climate,  is  better  worth  observing  than  the 
boughs  and  foliage ;  a  verdant  mossiness 
coats  it  all  over ;  so  that  it  looks  almost  as 
green  as  the  leaves  ;  and  often,  moreover, 

1  The  oaks  [in  Knowsley  Park]  did  not  seem  to  me 
so  magnificent  as  they  should  be  in  an  ancient  noble 
property  like  this.  A  century  does  not  accomplish  so 
much  for  a  tree,  in  this  slow  region,  as  it  does  in  ours. 
I  think,  however,  that  they  were  more  individual  and 
picturesque,  with  more  character  in  their  contorted 
trunks;  therein  somewhat  resembling  apple-trees.  Our 
forest  trees  have  a  great  sameness  of  character,  like  our 
people,  —  because  one  and  the  other  grow  too  closely. 
—  1.488. 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  149 

the  stately  stem  is  clustered  about,  high 
upward,  with  creeping  and  twining  shrubs, 
the  ivy,  and  sometimes  the  mistletoe,  close- 
clinging  friends,  nurtured  by  the  moisture 
and  never  too  fervid  sunshine,  and  support 
ing  themselves  by  the  old  tree's  abundant 
strength.  We  call  it  a  parasitical  vege 
tation  ;  but,  if  the  phrase  imply  any  re 
proach,  it  is  unkind  to  bestow  it  on  this 
beautiful  affection  and  relationship  which 
exist  in  England  between  one  order  of 
plants  and  another :  the  strong  tree  being 
always  ready  to  give  support  to  the  trail 
ing  shrub,  lift  it  to  the  sun,  and  feed  it  out 
of  its  own  heart,  if  it  crave  such  food  ;  and 
the  shrub,  on  its  part,  repaying  its  foster- 
father  with  an  ample  luxuriance  of  beauty, 
and  adding  Corinthian  grace  to  the  tree's 
lofty  strength.  No  bitter  winter  nips  these 
tender  little  sympathies,  no  hot  sun  burns 
the  life  out  of  them  ;  and  therefore  they 
outlast  the  longevity  of  the  oak,  and,  if  the 
woodman  permitted,  would  bury  it  in  a 
green  grave,  when  all  is  over. 

Should  there  be  nothing  else  along  the 
road  to  look  at,  an  English  hedge  might 
well  suffice  to  occupy  the  eyes,  and,  to  a 
depth  beyond  what  he  would  suppose,  the 
heart  of  an  American.  We  often  set  out 


150  OUR    OLD   HOME 

hedges  in  our  own  soil,  but  might  as  well 
set  out  figs  or  pineapples  and  expect  to 
gather  fruit  of  them.  Something  grows,  to 
be  sure,  which  we  choose  to  call  a  hedge  ; 
but  it  lacks  the  dense,  luxuriant  variety  of 
vegetation  that  is  accumulated  into  the 
English  original,  in  which  a  botanist  would 
find  a  thousand  shrubs  and  gracious  herbs 
that  the  hedge-maker  never  thought  of 
planting  there.  Among  them,  growing 
wild,  are  many  of  the  kindred  blossoms  of 
the  very  flowers  which  our  pilgrim  fathers 
brought  from  England,  for  the  sake  of  their 
simple  beauty  and  homelike  associations, 
and  which  we  have  ever  since  been  culti 
vating  in  gardens.  There  is  not  a  softer 
trait  to  be  found  in  the  character  of  those 
stern  men  than  that  they  should  have 
been  sensible  of  these  flower-roots  clinging 
among  the  fibres  of  their  rugged  hearts, 
and  have  felt  the  necessity  of  bringing 
them  over  sea  and  making  them  hereditary 
in  the  new  land,  instead  of  trusting  to  what 
rarer  beauty  the  wilderness  might  have  in 
store  for  them. 

Or,  if  the  roadside  has  no  hedge,  the 
ugliest  stone  fence  (such  as,  in  America, 
would  keep  itself  bare  and  unsympathizing 
till  the  end  of  time)  is  sure  to  be  covered 


A   COUNTRY    LANE 


A    GIFTED  WOMAN  151 

with  the  small  handiwork  of  Nature  ;  that 
careful  mother  lets  nothing  go  naked  there, 
and  if  she  cannot  provide  clothing,  gives  at 
least  embroidery.  No  sooner  is  the  fence 
built  than  she  adopts  and  adorns  it  as  a 
part  of  her  original  plan,  treating  the  hard, 
uncomely  construction  as  if  it  had  all  along 
been  a  favorite  idea  of  her  own.  A  little 
sprig  of  ivy  may  be  seen  creeping  up  the 
side  of  the  low  wall  and  clinging  fast  with 
its  many  feet  to  the  rough  surface  ;  a  tuft 
of  grass  roots  itself  between  two  of  the 
stones,  where  a  pinch  or  two  of  wayside 
dust  has  been  moistened  into  nutritious  soil 
for  it ;  a  small  bunch  of  fern  grows  in  an 
other  crevice ;  a  deep,  soft,  verdant  moss 
spreads  itself  along  the  top,  and  over  all  the 
available  inequalities  of  the  fence ;  and 
where  nothing  else  will  grow,  lichens  stick 
tenaciously  to  the  bare  stones,  and  varie 
gate  the  monotonous  gray  with  hues  of 
yellow  and  red.  Finally,  a  great  deal  of 
shrubbery  clusters  along  the  base  of  the 
stone  wall,  and  takes  away  the  hardness  of 
its  outline ;  and  in  due  time,  as  the  upshot 
of  these  apparently  aimless  or  sportive 
touches,  we  recognize  that  the  beneficent 
Creator  of  all  things,  working  through  his 
handmaiden  whom  we  call  Nature,  has  de- 


152  OUR   OLD   HOME 

signed  to  mingle  a  charm  of  divine  grace 
fulness  even  with  so  earthly  an  institu 
tion  as  a  boundary  fence.  The  clown  who 
wrought  at  it  little  dreamed  what  fellow- 
laborer  he  had.1 

The  English  should  send  us  photographs 
of  portions  of  the  trunks  of  trees,  the 
tangled  and  various  products  of  a  hedge, 
and  a  square  foot  of  an  old  wall.  They  can 
hardly  send  anything  else  so  characteristic. 

1  The  roads  give  us  beautiful  walks  along  the  river 
side,  or  wind  away  among  the  gentle  hills ;  and  if  we 
had  nothing  else  to  look  at  in  these  walks,  the  hedges 
and  stone  fences  would  afford  interest  enough,  so  many 
and  pretty  are  the  flowers,  roses,  honeysuckles,  and 
other  sweet  things,  and  so  abundantly  does  the  moss 
and  ivy  grow  among  the  old  stones  of  the  fences,  which 
would  never  have  a  single  shoot  of  vegetation  on  them 
in  America  till  the  very  end  of  time.  But  here,  no 
sooner  is  a  stone  fence  built,  than  Nature  sets  to  work 
to  make  it  a  part  of  herself.  She  adopts  'it  and  adorns 
it,  as  if  it  were  her  own  child.  A  little  sprig  of  ivy  may 
be  seen  creeping  up  the  side,  and  clinging  fast  with  its 
many  feet ;  a  tuft  of  grass  roots  itself  between  two  of 
the  stones,  where  a  little  dust  from  the  road  has  been 
moistened  into  soil  for  it ;  a  small  bunch  of  fern  grows 
in  another  such  crevice ;  a  deep,  soft,  green  moss 
spreads  itself  over  the  top  and  all  along  the  sides  of  the 
fence  ;  and  wherever  nothing  else  will  grow,  lichens 
adhere  to  the  stones  and  variegate  their  hues.  Finally, 
a  great  deal  of  shrubbery  is  sure  to  cluster  along  its 
extent,  and  take  away  all  hardness  from  the  outline  ; 
and  so  the  whole  stone  fence  looks  as  if  God  had  had  at 
least  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  man.  —  II.  16. 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  153 

Their  artists,  especially  of  the  later  school, 
sometimes  toil  to  depict  such  subjects,  but 
are  apt  to  stiffen  the  lithe  tendrils  in  the 
process.  The  poets  succeed  better,  with 
Tennyson  at  their  head,  and  often  produce 
ravishing  effects  by  dint  of  a  tender  mi 
nuteness  of  touch,  to  which  the  genius  of 
the  soil  and  climate  artfully  impels  them  : 
for,  as  regards  grandeur,  there  are  loftier 
scenes  in  many  countries  than  the  best 
that  England  can  show ;  but,  for  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  smallest  object  that 
lies  under  its  gentle  gloom  and  sunshine, 
there  is  no  scenery  like  it  anywhere. 

In  the  foregoing  paragraphs  I  have 
strayed  away  to  a  long  distance  from  the 
road  to  Stratford-on-Avon  ;  for  I  remember 
no  such  stone  fences  as  I  have  been  speak 
ing  of  in  Warwickshire,  nor  elsewhere  in 
England,  except  among  the  Lakes,  or  in 
Yorkshire,  and  the  rough  and  hilly  coun 
tries  to  the  north  of  it.  Hedges  there  were 
along  my  road,  however,  and  broad,  level 
fields,  rustic  hamlets,  and  cottages  of  an 
cient  date,  —  from  the  roof  of  one  of  which 
the  occupant  was  tearing  away  the  thatch, 
and  showing  what  an  accumulation  of  dust, 
dirt,  rnouldiness,  roots  of  weeds,  families  of 
mice,  swallows'-nests,  and  hordes  of  in- 


154  OUR   OLD  HOME 

sects  had  been  deposited  there  since  that 
old  straw  was  new.  Estimating  its  antiquity 
from  these  tokens,  Shakespeare  himself,  in 
one  of  his  morning  rambles  out  of  his  na 
tive  town,  might  have  seen  the  thatch  laid 
on  ;  at  all  events,  the  cottage-walls  were 
old  enough  to  have  known  him  as  a  guest. 
A  few  modern  villas  were  also  to  be  seen, 
and  perhaps  there  were  mansions  of  old 
gentility  at  no  great  distance,  but  hidden 
among  trees ;  for  it  is  a  point  of  English 
pride  that  such  houses  seldom  allow  them 
selves  to  be  visible  from  the  high-road.  In 
short,  I  recollect  nothing  specially  remark 
able  along  the  way,  nor  in  the  immediate 
approach  to  Stratford ;  and  yet  the  picture 
of  that  June  morning  has  a  glory  in  my 
memory,  owing  chiefly,  I  believe,  to  the 
charm  of  the  English  summer  weather,  the 
really  good  days  of  which  are  the  most  de 
lightful  that  mortal  man  can  ever  hope  to 
be  favored  with.  Such  a  genial  warmth  ! 
A  little  too  warm,  it  might  be,  yet  only  to 
such  a  degree  as  to  assure  an  American  (a 
certainty  to  which  he  seldom  attains  till 
attempered  to  the  customary  austerity  of 
an  English  summer  day)  that  he  was  quite 
warm  enough.  And  after  all,  there  was  an 
unconquerable  freshness  in  the  atmosphere, 


A    GIFTED  WOMAN  155 

which  every  little  movement  of  a  breeze 
shook  over  me  like  a  dash  of  the  ocean 
spray.  Such  days  need  bring  us  no  other 
happiness  than  their  own  light  and  temper 
ature.  No  doubt,  I  cauld  not  have  enjoyed 
it  so  exquisitely,  except  that  there  must  be 
still  latent  in  us  Western  wanderers  (even 
after  an  absence  of  two  centuries  and  more) 
an  adaptation  to  the  English  climate  which 
makes  us  sensible  of  a  motherly  kindness 
in  its  scantiest  sunshine,  and  overflows  us 
with  delight  at  its  more  lavish  smiles. 

The  spire  of  Shakespeare's  church — the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  —  begins  to 
show  itself  among  the  trees  at  a  little  dis 
tance  from  Stratford.  Next  we  see  the 
shabby  old  dwellings,  intermixed  with  mean- 
looking  houses  of  modern  date ;  and  the 
streets  being  quite  level,  you  are  struck 
and  surprised  by  nothing  so  much  as  the 
tameness  of  the  general  scene,  as  if  Shake 
speare's  genius  were  vivid  enough  to  have 
wrought  pictorial  splendors  in  the  town 
where  he  was  born.  Here  and  there,  how 
ever,  a  queer  edifice  meets  your  eye,  en 
dowed  with  the  individuality  that  belongs 
only  to  the  domestic  architecture  of  times 
gone  by  ;  the  house  seems  to  have  grown 
out  of  some  odd  quality  in  its  inhabitant, 


156  OUR   OLD  HOME 

as  a  sea-shell  is  moulded  from  within  by 
the  character  of  its  inmate ;  and  having 
been  built  in  a  strange  fashion,  generations 
ago,  it  has  ever  since  been  growing  stranger 
and  quainter,  as  old  humorists  are  apt  to 
do.  Here,  too  (as  so  often  impressed  me 
in  decayed  English  towns),  there  appeared 
to  be  a  greater  abundance  of  aged  people 
wearing  small-clothes  and  leaning  on  sticks 
than  you  could  assemble  on  our  side  of  the 
water  by  sounding  a  trumpet  and  proclaim 
ing  a  reward  for  the  most  venerable.  I 
tried  to  account  for  this  phenomenon  by 
several  theories  :  as,  for  example,  that  our 
new  towns  are  unwholesome  for  age  and 
kill  it  off  unseasonably ;  or  that  our  old 
men  have  a  subtile  sense  of  fitness,  and  die 
of  their  own  accord  rather  than  live  in  an 
unseemly  contrast  with  youth  and  novelty ; 
but  the  secret  may  be,  after  all,  that  hair- 
dyes,  false  teeth,  modern  arts  of  dress,  and 
contrivances  of  a  skin-deep  youthfulness, 
have  not  crept  into  these  antiquated  Eng 
lish  towns,  and  so  people  grow  old  without 
the  weary  necessity  of  seeming  younger 
than  they  are. 

After  wandering  through  two  or  three 
streets,  I  found  my  way  to  Shakespeare's 
birthplace,  which  is  almost  a  smaller  and 


A   GIFTED  WOMAN  157 

humbler  house  than  any  description  can 
prepare  the  visitor  to  expect ;  so  inevitably 
does  an  august  inhabitant  make  his  abode 
palatial  to  our  imaginations,  receiving  his 
guests,  indeed,  in  a  castle  in  the  air,  until 
we  unwisely  insist  on  meeting  him  among 
the  sordid  lanes  and  alleys  of  lower  earth. 
The  portion  of  the  edifice  with  which 
Shakespeare  had  anything  to  do  is  hardly 
large  enough,  in  the  basement,  to  contain 
the  butcher's  stall  that  one  of  his  descend 
ants  kept,  and  that  still  remains  there, 
windowless,  with  the  cleaver-cuts  in  its 
hacked  counter,  which  projects  into  the 
street  under  a  little  penthouse-roof,  as  if 
waiting  for  a  new  occupant. 

The  upper  half  of  the  door  was  open, 
and,  on  my  rapping  at  it,  a  young  person 
in  black  made  her  appearance  and  admitted 
me  ;  she  was  not  a  menial,  but  remarkably 
genteel  (an  American  characteristic)  for  an 
English  girl,  and  was  probably  the  daughter 
of  the  old  gentlewoman  who  takes  care  of 
the  house.  This  lower  room  has  a  pave 
ment  of  gray  slabs  of  stone,  which  may 
have  been  rudely  squared  when  the  house 
was  new,  but  are  now  all  cracked,  broken, 
and  disarranged  in  a  most  unaccountable 
way.  One  does  not  see  how  any  ordinary 


158  OUR   OLD  HOME 

usage,  for  whatever  length  of  time,  should 
have  so  smashed  these  heavy  stones ;  it  is 
as  if  an  earthquake  had  burst  up  through 
the  floor,  which  afterwards  had  been  imper 
fectly  trodden  down  again.  The  room  is 
whitewashed  and  very  clean,  but  wofully 
shabby  and  dingy,  coarsely  built,  and  such 
as  the  most  poetical  imagination  would  find 
it  difficult  to  idealize.  In  the  rear  of  this 
apartment  is  the  kitchen,  a  still  smaller 
room,  of  a  similar  rude  aspect ;  it  has  a 
great  rough  fireplace,  with  space  for  a  large 
family  under  the  blackened  opening  of  the 
chimney,  and  an  immense  passageway  for 
the  smoke,  through  which  Shakespeare  may 
have  seen  the  blue  sky  by  day  and  the  stars 
glimmering  down  at  him  by  night.  It  is 
now  a  dreary  spot  where  the  long-extin 
guished  embers  used  to  be.  A  glowing  fire, 
even  if  it  covered  only  a  quarter  part  of  the 
hearth,  might  still  do  much  towards  making 
the  old  kitchen  cheerful.  But  we  get  a 
depressing  idea  of  the  stifled,  poor,  sombre 
kind  of  life  that  could  have  been  lived  in 
such  a  dwelling,  where  this  room  seems  to 
have  been  the  gathering-place  of  the  family, 
with  no  .breadth  or  scope,  no  good  retire 
ment,  but  old  and  young  huddling  together 
cheek  by  jowl.  What  a  hardy  plant  was 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  159 

Shakespeare's  genius,  how  fatal  its  develop 
ment,  since  it  could  not  be  blighted  in  such 
an  atmosphere  !  It  only  brought  human 
nature  the  closer  to  him,  and  put  more 
unctuous  earth  about  his  roots. 

Thence  I  was  ushered  upstairs  to  the 
room  in  which  Shakespeare  is  'supposed  to 
have  been  born :  though,  if  you  peep  too 
curiously  into  the  matter,  you  may  find  the 
shadow  of  an  ugly  doubt  on  this,  as  well 
as  most  other  points  of  his  mysterious  life. 
It  is  the  chamber  over  the  butcher's  shop, 
and  is  lighted  by  one  broad  window  con 
taining  a  great  many  small,  irregular  panes 
of  glass.  The  floor  is  made  of  planks, 
very  rudely  hewn,  and  fitting  together  with 
little  neatness ;  the  naked  beams  and  raf 
ters,  at  the  sides  of  the  room  and  overhead, 
bear  the  original  marks  of  the  builder's 
broad-axe,  with  no  evidence  of  an  attempt 
to  smooth  off  the  job.  Again  we  have  to 
reconcile  ourselves  to  the  smallness  of  the 
space  inclosed  by  these  illustrious  walls,  — 
a  circumstance  more  difficult  to  accept,  as 
regards  places  that  we  have  heard,  read, 
thought,  and  dreamed  much  about,  than 
any  other  disenchanting  particular  of  a 
mistaken  ideal.  A  few  paces  —  perhaps 
seven  or  eight  —  take  us  from  end  to  end 


l6o  OUR   OLD  HOME 

of  it.  So  low  it  is,  that  I  could  easily  touch 
the  ceiling,  and  might  have  done  so  with 
out  a  tiptoe-stretch,  had  it  been  a  good  deal 
higher ;  and  this  humility  of  the  chamber 
has  tempted  a  vast  multitude  of  people 
to  write  their  names  overhead  in  pencil. 
Every  inch  of  the  side-walls,  even  into  the 
obscurest  nooks  and  corners,  is  covered 
with  a  similar  record ;  all  the  window- 
panes,  moreover,  are  scrawled  with  diamond 
signatures,  among  which  is  said  to  be  that 
of  Walter  Scott ;  but  so  many  persons 
have  sought  to  immortalize  themselves  in 
close  vicinity  to  his  name,  that  I  really 
could  not  trace  him  out.  Methinks  it  is 
strange  that  people  do  not  strive  to  forget 
their  forlorn  little  identities,  in  such  situa 
tions,  instead  of  thrusting  them  forward 
into  the  dazzle  of  a  great  renown,  where, 
if  noticed,  they  cannot  but  be  deemed 
impertinent. 

This  room,  and  the  entire  house,  so  far 
as  I  saw  it,  are  whitewashed  and  exceed 
ingly  clean  ;  nor  is  there  the  aged,  musty 
smell  with  which  old  Chester  first  made 
me  acquainted,  and  which  goes  far  to  cure 
an  American  of  his  excessive  predilection 
for  antique  residences.  An  old  lady,  who 
took  charge  of  me  upstairs,  had  the  man- 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  l6l 

ners  and  aspect  of  a  gentlewoman,  and 
talked  with  somewhat  formidable  knowledge 
and  appreciative  intelligence  about  Shake 
speare.  Arranged  on  a  table  and  in  chairs 
were  various  prints,  views  of  houses  and 
scenes  connected  with  Shakespeare's  mem 
ory,  together  with  editions  of  his  works  and 
local  publications  about  his  home  and 
haunts,  from  the  sale  of  which  this  respect 
able  lady  perhaps  realizes  a  handsome  profit. 
At  any  rate,  I  bought  a  good  many  of  them, 
conceiving  that  it  might  be  the  civilest 
way  of  requiting  her  for  her  instructive 
conversation  and  the  trouble  she  took  in 
showing  me  the  house.  It  cost  me  a  pang 
(not  a  curmudgeonly,  but  a  gentlemanly 
one)  to  offer  a  downright  fee  to  the  lady 
like  girl  who  had  admitted  me  ;  but  I  swal 
lowed  my  delicate  scruples  with  some  little 
difficulty,  and  she  digested  hers,  as  far  as 
I  could  observe,  with  no  difficulty  at  all. 
In  fact,  nobody  need  fear  to  hold  out  half 
a  crown  to  any  person  with  whom  he  has 
occasion  to  speak  a  word  in  England.1 

1  We  got  some  biscuits  at  the  hotel  [in  Eastham],  and 
I  gave  the  waiter  (a  splendid  gentleman  in  black)  four 
halfpence,  being  the  surplus  of  a  shilling.  He  bowed 
and  thanked  me  very  humbly  An  American  does  not 
easily  bring  his  mind  to  the  small  measure  of  English 
liberality  to  servants  ;  if  anything  is  to  be  given,  we  are 


1 62  OUR   OLD   HOME 

I  should  consider  it  unfair  to  quit  Shake 
speare's  house  without  the  frank  acknow- 

ashamed  not  to  give  more,  especially  to  clerical  looking 
persons,  in  black  suits  and  white  neck-cloths.  —  I.  493. 

The  hotels  are  mostly  very  good  all  through  this 
region,  and  this  deserved  that  character.  A  black-coated 
waiter,  of  more  gentlemanly  appearance  than  most  Eng 
lishmen,  yet  taking  a  sixpence  with  as  little  scruple  as  a 
lawyer  would  take  his  fee ;  the  mistress,  in  lady-like  at 
tire,  receiving  us  at  the  door,  and  waiting  upon  us  to  the 
carriage-steps  ;  clean,  comely  house-maids  everywhere  at 
hand, — all  appliances,  in  short,  for  being  comfortable, 
and  comfortable,  too,  within  one's  own  circle.  And,  on 
taking  leave,  everybody  who  has  clone  anything  for  you, 
or  who  might  by  possibility  have  done  anything,  is  to  be 
feed.  You  pay  the  landlord  enough,  in  all  conscience  ; 
and  then  you  pay  all  his  servants,  who  have  been  your 
servants  for  the  time.  —  II.  40. 

Perhaps  a  part  of  my  weariness  is  owing  to  the  hotel- 
life  which  we  lead.  At  an  English  hotel  the  traveler 
feels  as  if  everybody,  from  the  landlord,  downward, 
united  in  a  joint  and  individual  purpose  to  fleece  him, 
because  all  the  attendants  who  come  in  contact  with 
him  are  to  be  separately  considered.  So,  after  paying, 
in  the  first  instance,  a  very  heavy  bill,  for  what  would 
seem  to  cover  the  whole  indebtedness,  there  remain 
divers  dues  still  to  be  paid,  to  no  trifling  amount,  to 
the  landlord's  servants,  —  dues  not  to  be  ascertained, 
and  which  you  never  can  know  whether  you  have  prop 
erly  satisfied.  You  can  know,  perhaps,  when  you  have 
less  than  satisfied  them,  by  the  aspect  of  the  waiter, 
which  I  wish  I  could  describe,  —  not  disrespectful  in  the 
slightest  degree,  but  a  look  of  profound  surprise,  a  gaze 
at  the  offered  coin  (which  he  nevertheless  pockets)  as 
if  he  either  did  not  see  it,  or  did  not  know  it,  or  could 
not  believe  his  eyesight;  —  all  this,  however,  with  the 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  163 

ledgment  that  I  was  conscious  of  not  the 
slightest  emotion  while  viewing  it,  nor  any 
quickening  of  the  imagination.  This  has 
often  happened  to  me  in  my  visits  to 
memorable  places.  Whatever  pretty  and 
apposite  reflections  I  may  have  made  upon 
the  subject  had  either  occurred  to  me  be 
fore  I  ever  saw  Stratford,  or  have  been 
elaborated  since.  It  is  pleasant,  neverthe 
less,  to  think  that  I  have  seen  the  place ; 
and  I  believe  that  I  can  form  a  more  sen 
sible  and  vivid  idea  of  Shakespeare  as  a 
flesh-and-blood  individual  now  that  I  have 
stood  on  the  kitchen-hearth  and  in  the 
birth-chamber ;  but  I  am  not  quite  certain 
that  this  power  of  realization  is  altogether 
desirable  in  reference  to  a  great  poet.  The 
Shakespeare  whom  I  met  there  took  various 

most  quiet  forbearance,  a  Christian-like  non-recognition 
of  an  unmerited  wrong  and  insult ;  and  finally,  all  in  a 
moment's  space  indeed,  he  quits  you  and  goes  about 
his  other  business.  If  you  have  given  him  too  much, 
you  are  made  sensible  of  your  folly  by  the  extra  amount 
of  his  gratitude,  and  the  bows  with  which  he  salutes  you 
from  the  doorstep.  Generally,  you  cannot  very  deci 
dedly  say  whether  you  have  been  right  or  wrong ;  but, 
in  almost  all  cases,  you  decidedly  feel  that  you  have 
been  fleeced.  —  II.  60. 

Be  it  recorded  that  I  never  knew  an  Englishman  to 
refuse  a  shilling,  —  or,  for  that  matter,  a  halfpenny. 
—  II.  169. 


164  OUR   OLD   HOME 

guises,  but  had  not  his  laurel  on.  He  was 
successively  the  roguish  boy,  —  the  youth 
ful  deer-stealer,  —  the  comrade  of  players, — 
the  too  familiar  friend  of  Davenant's  mo 
ther,  —  the  careful,  thrifty,  thriven  man  of 
property  who  came  back  from  London 
to  lend  money  on  bond,  and  occupy  the 
best  house  in  Stratford,  —  the  mellow,  red- 
nosed,  autumnal  boon-companion  of  John  a' 
Combe,  —  and  finally  (or  else  the  Stratford 
gossips  belied  him),  the  victim  of  convivial 
habits,  who  met  his  death  by  tumbling  into 
a  ditch  on  his  way  home  from  a  drinking- 
bout,  and  left  his  second-best  bed  to  his 
poor  wife. 

I  feel,  as  sensibly  as  the  reader  can,  what 
horrible  impiety  it  is  to  remember  these 
things,  be  they  true  or  false.  In  either 
case,  they  ought  to  vanish  out  of  sight  on 
the  distant  ocean-line  of  the  past,  leaving  a 
pure,  white  memory,  even  as  a  sail,  though 
perhaps  darkened  with  many  stains,  looks 
snowy  white  on  the  far  horizon.  But  I 
draw  a  moral  from  these  unworthy  remi 
niscences  and  this  embodiment  of  the  poet, 
as  suggested  by  some  of  the  grimy  actu 
alities  of  his  life.  It  is  for  the  high 
interests  of  the  world  not  to  insist  upon 
finding  out  that  its  greatest  men  are,  in  a 


A    GIFTED  WOMAN  165 

certain  lower  sense,  very  much  the  same 
kind  of  men  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  often  a 
little  worse ;  because  a  common  mind  can 
not  properly  digest  such  a  discovery,  nor 
ever  know  the  true  proportion  of  the  great 
man's  good  and  evil,  nor  how  small  a  part 
of  him  it  was  that  touched  our  muddy  or 
dusty  earth.  Thence  comes  moral  bewil 
derment,  and  even  intellectual  loss,  in  re 
gard  to  what  is  best  of  him.  When  Shake 
speare  invoked  a  curse  on  the  man  who 
should  stir  his  bones,  he  perhaps  meant 
the  larger  share  of  it  for  him  or  them  who 
should  pry  into  his  perishing  earthliness, 
the  defects  or  even  the  merits  of  the  char 
acter  that  he  wore  in  Stratford,  when  he 
had  left  mankind  so  much  to  muse  upon 
that  was  imperishable  and  divine.  Heaven 
keep  me  from  incurring  any  part  of  the 
anathema  in  requital  for  the  irreverent  sen 
tences  above  written ! 

From  Shakespeare's  house,  the  next  step, 
of  course,  is  to  visit  his  burial-place.  The 
appearance  of  the  church  is  most  venerable 
and  beautiful,  standing  amid  a  great  green 
shadow  of  lime-trees,  above  which  rises  the 
spire,  while  the  Gothic  battlements  and 
buttresses  and  vast  arched  windows  are 
obscurely  seen  through  the  boughs.  The 


1 66  OUR   OLD   HOME 

Avon  loiters  past  the  churchyard,  an  ex- 
ceedingly  sluggish  river,  which  might  seem 
to  have  been  considering  which  way  it 
should  flow  ever  since  Shakespeare  left  off 
paddling  in  it  and  gathering  the  large  for 
get-me-nots  that  grow  among  its  flags  and 
water-weeds. 

An  old  man  in  small-clothes  was  waiting 
at  the  gate  ;  and  inquiring  whether  I  wished 
to  go  in,  he  preceded  me  to  the  church- 
porch,  and  rapped.  I  could  have  done  it 
quite  as  effectually  for  myself  ;  but  it  seems 
the  old  people  of  the  neighborhood  haunt 
about  the  churchyard,  in  spite  of  the  frowns 
and  remonstrances  of  the  sexton,  who 
grudges  them  the  half-eleemosynary  six 
pence  which  they  sometimes  get  from  visi 
tors.  I  was  admitted  into  the  church  by  a 
respectable-looking  and  intelligent  man  in 
black,  the  parish-clerk,  I  suppose,  and  prob 
ably  holding  a  richer  incumbency  than  his 
vicar,  if  all  the  fees  which  he  handles  remain 
in  his  own  pocket.  He  was  already  exhibit 
ing  the  Shakespeare  monuments  to  two 
or  three  visitors,  and  several  other  parties 
came  in  while  I  was  there. 

The  poet  and  his  family  are  in  possession 
of  what  may  be  considered  the  very  best 
burial-places  that  the  church  affords.  They 


A    GIFTED  WOMAN  l6? 

lie  in  a  row,  right  across  the  breadth  of  the 
chancel,  the  foot  of  each  gravestone  being 
close  to  the  elevated  floor  on  which  the 
altar  stands.  Nearest  to  the  side-wall,  be 
neath  Shakespeare's  bust,  is  a  slab  bearing 
a  Latin  inscription  addressed  to  his  wife, 
and  covering  her  remains ;  then  his  own 
slab,  with  the  old  anathematizing  stanza 
upon  it  ;  then  that  of  Thomas  Nash,  who 
married  his  granddaughter ;  then  that  of 
Dr.  Hall,  the  husband  of  his  daughter 
Susannah ;  and,  lastly,  Susannah's  own. 
Shakespeare's  is  the  commonest-looking 
slab  of  all,  being  just  such  a  flag-stone  as 
Essex  Street  in  Salem  used  to  be  paved 
with,  when  I  was  a  boy.  Moreover,  unless 
my  eyes  or  recollection  deceive  me,  there 
is  a  crack  across  it,  as  if  it  had  already 
undergone  some  such  violence  as  the  in 
scription  deprecates.  Unlike  the  other 
monuments  of  the  family,  it  bears  no  name, 
nor  am  I  acquainted  with  the  grounds  or 
authority  on  which  it  is  absolutely  deter 
mined  to  be  Shakespeare's ;  although,  be 
ing  in  a  range  with  those  of  his  wife  and 
children,  it  might  naturally  be  attributed  to 
him.  But,  then,  why  does  his  wife,  who 
died  afterwards,  take  precedence  of  him 
and  occupy  the  place  next  his  bust  ?  And 


1 68  OUR   OLD   HOME 

where  are  the  graves  of  another  daughter 
and  a  son,  who  have  a  better  right  in  the 
family  row  than  Thomas  Nash,  his  grand- 
son-in-law  ?  Might  not  one  or  both  of 
them  have  been  laid  under  the  nameless 
stone  ?  But  it  is  dangerous  trifling  with 
Shakespeare's  dust ;  so  I  forbear  to  meddle 
further  with  the  grave  (though  the  prohi 
bition  makes  it  tempting),  and  shall  let 
whatever  bones  be  in  it  rest  in  peace. 
Yet  I  must  needs  add  that  the  inscription 
on  the  bust  seems  to  imply  that  Shake 
speare's  grave  was  directly  underneath  it. 
The  poet's  bust  is  affixed  to  the  northern 
wall  of  the  church,  the  base  of  it  being 
about  a  man's  height,  or  rather  more,  above 
the  floor  of  the  chancel.  The  features  of 
this  piece  of  sculpture  are  entirely  unlike 
any  portrait  of  Shakespeare  that  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  compel  me  to  take  down  the 
beautiful,  lofty-browed,  and  noble  picture 
of  him  which  has  hitherto  hung  in  my 
mental  portrait  gallery.  The  bust  cannot 
be  said  to  represent  a  beautiful  face  or  an 
eminently  noble  head  ;  but  it  clutches  firm 
ly  hold  of  one's  sense  of  reality  and  insists 
upon  your  accepting  it,  if  not  as  Shake 
speare  the  poet,  yet  as  the  wealthy  burgher 
of  Stratford,  the  friend  of  John  a'  Combe, 


A    GIFTED   WOMAW  169 

who  lies  yonder  in  the  corner.  I  know  not 
what  the  phrenologists  say  to  the  bust. 
The  forehead  is  but  moderately  developed, 
and  retreats  somewhat,  the  upper  part  of 
the  skull  rising  pyramidally ;  the  eyes  are 
prominent  almost  beyond  the  penthouse  of 
the  brow  ;  the  upper  lip  is  so  long  that  it 
must  have  been  almost  a  deformity,  unless 
the  sculptor  artistically  exaggerated  its 
length,  in  consideration,  that,  on  the  ped 
estal,  it  must  be  foreshortened  by  being 
looked  at  from  below.  On  the  whole, 
Shakespeare  must  have  had  a  singular 
rather  than  a  prepossessing  face  ;  and  it  is 
wonderful  how,  with  this  bust  before  its 
eyes,  the  world  has  persisted  in  maintaining 
an  erroneous  notion  of  his  appearance,  al 
lowing  painters  and  sculptors  to  foist  their 
idealized  nonsense  on  us  all,  instead  of  the 
genuine  man.  For  my  part,  the  Shake 
speare  of  my  mind's  eye  is  henceforth  to 
be  a  personage  of  a  ruddy  English  complex 
ion,  with  a  reasonably  capacious  brow,  in 
telligent  and  quickly  observant  eyes,  a  nose 
curved  slightly  outward,  a  long,  queer  upper 
lip,  with  the  mouth  a  little  unclosed  be 
neath  it,  and  cheeks  considerably  developed 
in  the  lower  part  and  beneath  the  chin. 
But  when  Shakespeare  was  himself  (for 


1 70  OUR   OLD  HOME 

nine  tenths  of  the  time,  according  to  all 
appearances,  he  was  but  the  burgher  of 
Stratford),  he  doubtless  shone  through  this 
dull  mask  and  transfigured  it  into  the  face 
of  an  angel. 

Fifteen  or  twenty  feet  behind  the  row  of 
Shakespeare  gravestones  is  the  great  east 
window  of  the  church,  now  brilliant  with 
stained  glass  of  recent  manufacture.  On 
one  side  of  this  window,  under  a  sculptured 
arch  of  marble,  lies  a  full-length  marble 
figure  of  John  a'  Combe,  clad  in  what  I 
take  to  be  a  robe  of  municipal  dignity,  and 
holding  its  hands  devoutly  clasped.  It  is  a 
sturdy  English  figure,  with  coarse  features, 
a  type  of  ordinary  man  whom  we  smile  to 
see  immortalized  in  the  sculpturesque  mate 
rial  of  poets  and  heroes  ;  but  the  prayerful 
attitude  encourages  us  to  believe  that  the 
old  usurer  may  not,  after  all,  have  had  that 
grim  reception  in  the  other  world  which 
Shakespeare's  squib  foreboded  for  him.  By 
the  by,  till  I  grew  somewhat  familiar  with 
Warwickshire  pronunciation,  I  never  under 
stood  that  the  point  of  those  ill-natured 
lines  was  a  pun.  "  '  Oho  ! '  quoth  the  Dev 
il,  ''tis  my  John  a'  Combe!'" — that  is, 
"  My  John  has  come  !  " 

Close  to  the  poet's  bust  is  a  nameless. 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  I /I 

oblong,  cubic  tomb,  supposed  to  be  that  of 
a  clerical  dignitary  of  the  fourteenth  cen 
tury.  The  church  has  other  mural  monu 
ments  and  altar-tombs,  one  or  two  of  the 
latter  upholding  the  recumbent  figures  of 
knights  in  armor  and  their  dames,  very 
eminent  and  worshipful  personages  in  their 
day,  no  doubt,  but  doomed  to  appear  for 
ever  intrusive  and  impertinent  within  the 
precincts  which  Shakespeare  has  made  his 
own.  His  renown  is  tyrannous,  and  suffers 
nothing  else  to  be  recognized  within  the 
scope  of  its  material  presence,  unless  illu 
minated  by  some  side-ray  from  himself. 
The  clerk  informed  me  that  interments  no 
longer  take  place  in  any  part  of  the  church. 
And  it  is  better  so  ;  for  methinks  a  person 
of  delicate  individuality,  curious  about  his 
burial-place,  and  desirous  of  six  feet  of 
earth  for  himself  alone,  could  never  endure 
to  lie  buried  near  Shakespeare,  but  would 
rise  up  at  midnight  and  grope  his  way  out 
of  the  church-door,  rather  than  sleep  in  the 
shadow  of  so  stupendous  a  memory. 

I  should  hardly  have  dared  to  add  another 
to  the  innumerable  descriptions  of  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon,  if  it  had  not  seemed  to  me 
that  this  would  form  a  fitting  framework  to 
some  reminiscences  of  a  very  remarkable 


172  OUR   OLD  HOME 

woman.  Her  labor,  while  she  lived,  was  of 
a  nature  and  purpose  outwardly  irreverent 
to  the  name  of  Shakespeare,  yet,  by  its  ac 
tual  tendency,  entitling  her  to  the  distinc 
tion  of  being  that  one  of  all  his  worshipers 
who  sought,  though  she  knew  it  not,  to 
place  the  richest  and  stateliest  diadem  upon 
his  brow.  We  Americans,  at  least,  in  the 
scanty  annals  of  our  literature,  cannot  af 
ford  to  forget  her  high  and  conscientious 
exercise  of  noble  faculties,  which,  indeed,  if 
you  look  at  the  matter  in  one  way,  evolved 
only  a  miserable  error,  but,  more  fairly  con 
sidered,  produced  a  result  worth  almost 
what  it  cost  her.  Her  faith  in  her  own 
ideas  was  so  genuine  that,  erroneous  as 
they  were,  it  transmuted  them  to  gold,  or,  at 
all  events,  interfused  a  large  proportion  of 
that  precious  and  indestructible  substance 
among  the  waste  material  from  which  it 
can  readily  be  sifted. 

The  only  time  I  ever  saw  Miss  Bacon 
was  in  London,  where  she  had  lodgings  in 
Spring  Street,  Sussex  Gardens,  at  the  house 
of  a  grocer,  a  portly,  middle-aged,  civil,  and 
friendly  man,  who,  as  well  as  his  wife,  ap 
peared  to  feel  a  personal  kindness  towards 
their  lodger.  I  was  ushered  up  two  (and  I 
rather  believe  three)  pair  of  stairs  into 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  173 

a  parlor  somewhat  humbly  furnished,  and 
told  that  Miss  Bacon  would  come  soon. 
There  were  a  number  of  books  on  the  table, 
and,  looking  into  them,  I  found  that  every 
one  had  some  reference,  more  or  less  im 
mediate,  to  her  Shakespearean  theory,  — 
a  volume  of  Raleigh's  "History  of  the 
World,  "  a  volume  of  Montaigne,  a  volume 
of  Lord  Bacon's  Letters,  a  volume  of  Shake 
speare's  Plays  ;  and  on  another  table  lay  a 
large  roll  of  manuscript,  which  I  presume 
to  have  been  a  portion  of  her  work.  To 
be  sure,  there  was  a  pocket-Bible  among 
the  books,  but  everything  else  referred  to 
the  one  despotic  idea  that  had  got  posses 
sion  of  her  mind  ;  and  as  it  had  engrossed 
her  whole  soul  as  well  as  her  intellect,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  she  had  established 
subtile  connections  between  it  and  the  Bible 
likewise.  As  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with 
solitary  students,  Miss  Bacon  probably  read 
late  and  rose  late  ;  for  I  took  up  Montaigne 
(it  was  Hazlitt's  translation)  and  had  been 
reading  his  journey  to  Italy  a  good  while 
before  she  appeared. 

I  had  expected  (the  more  shame  for  me, 
having  no  other  ground  for  such  expecta 
tion  than  that  she  was  a  literary  woman)  to 
see  a  very  homely,  uncouth,  elderly  person- 


174  OUR  OLD  HOME 

age,  and  was  quite  agreeably  disappointed 
by  her  aspect.  She  was  rather  uncom 
monly  tall,  and  had  a  striking  and  expres 
sive  face,  dark  hair,  dark  eyes,  which  shone 
with  an  inward  light  as  soon  as  she  began 
to  speak,  and  by  and  by  a  color  came  into 
her  cheeks  and  made  her  look  almost  young. 
Not  that  she  really  was  so  ;  she  must  have 
been  beyond  middle  age  :  and  there  was  no 
unkindness  in  coming  to  that  conclusion, 
because,  making  allowance  for  years  and 
ill-health,  I  could  suppose  her  to  have  been 
handsome  and  exceedingly  attractive  once. 
Though  wholly  estranged  from  society, 
there  was  little  or  no  restraint  or  embar 
rassment  in  her  manner  :  lonely  people  are 
generally  glad  to  give  utterance  to  their 
pent-up  ideas,  and  often  bubble  over  with 
them  as  freely  as  children  with  their  new 
found  syllables.  I  cannot  tell  how  it  came 
about,  but  we  immediately  found  ourselves 
taking  a  friendly  and  familiar  tone  together, 
and  began  to  talk  as  if  we  had  known  one 
another  a  very  long  while.  A  little  prelimi 
nary  correspondence  had  indeed  smoothed 
the  way,  and  we  had  a  definite  topic  in  the 
contemplated  publication  of  her  book. 

She  was  very  communicative  about  her 
theory,  and  would  have  been  much  more  so 


DELIA  BACON 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  1/5 

had  I  desired  it ;  but,  being  conscious  with 
in  myself  of  a  sturdy  unbelief,  I  deemed  it 
fair  and  honest  rather  to  repress  than  draw 
her  out  upon  the  subject.  Unquestionably, 
she  was  a  monomaniac  ;  these  overmaster 
ing  ideas  about  the  authorship  of  Shake 
speare's  Plays,  and  the  deep  political  phi 
losophy  concealed  beneath  the  surface  of 
them,  had  completely  thrown  her  off  her 
balance ;  but  at  the  same  time  they  had 
wonderfully  developed  her  intellect,  and 
made  her  what  she  could  not  otherwise 
have  become.  It  was  a  very  singular  phe 
nomenon  :  a  system  of  philosophy  growing 
up  in  this  woman's  mind  without  her  voli 
tion,  —  contrary,  in  fact,  to  the  determined 
resistance  of  her  volition,  —  and  substitut 
ing  itself  in  the  place  of  everything  that 
originally  grew  there.  To  have  based  such 
a  system  on  fancy,  and  unconsciously  elab 
orated  it  for  herself,  was  almost  as  wonder 
ful  as  really  to  have  found  it  in  the  plays. 
But,  in  a  certain  sense,  she  did  actually  find 
it  there.  Shakespeare  has  surface  beneath 
surface,  to  an  immeasurable  depth,  adapted 
to  the  plummet-line  of  every  reader ;  his 
works  present  many  phases  of  truth,  each 
with  scope  large  enough  to  fill  a  contempla 
tive  mind.  Whatever  you  seek  in  him  you 


OUR   OLD  HOME 

will  surely  discover,  provided  you  seek 
truth.  There  is  no  exhausting  the  various 
interpretation  of  his  symbols  ;  and  a  thou 
sand  years  hence  a  world  of  new  readers 
will  possess  a  whole  library  of  new  books, 
as  we  ourselves  do,  in  these  volumes  old 
already.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  suggest  to 
Miss  Bacon  this  explanation  of  her  theory, 
but  forbore,  because  (as  I  could  readily 
perceive)  she  had  as  princely  a  spirit  as 
Queen  Elizabeth  herself,  and  would  at  once 
have  motioned  me  from  the  room. 

I  had  heard,  long  ago,  that  she  believed 
/hat  the  material  evidences  of  her  dogma 
as  to  the  authorship,  together  with  the  key 
of  the  new  philosophy,  would  be  found 
buried  in  Shakespeare's  grave.  Recently, 
as  I  understood  her,  this  notion  had  been 
somewhat  modified,  and  was  now  accurately 
defined  and  fully  developed  in  her  mind, 
with  a  result  of  perfect  certainty.  In  Lord 
Bacon's  Letters,  on  which  she  laid  her 
finger  as  she  spoke,  she  had  discovered  the 
key  and  clew  to  the  whole  mystery.  There 
were  definite  and  minute  instructions  how 
to  find  a  will  and  other  documents  relating 
to  the  conclave  of  Elizabethan  philosophers, 
which  were  concealed  (when  and  by  whom 
she  did  not  inform  me)  in  a  hollow  space 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  IJJ 

in  the  under  surface  of  Shakespeare's  grave 
stone.  Thus  the  terrible  prohibition  to 
remove  the  stone  was  accounted  for.  The 
directions,  she  intimated,  went  completely 
and  precisely  to  the  point,  obviating  all 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  coming  at  the 
treasure,  and  even,  if  I  remember  right, 
were  so  contrived  as  to  ward  off  any  trouble 
some  consequences  likely  to  ensue  from 
the  interference  of  the  parish-officers.  All 
that  Miss  Bacon  now  remained  in  England 
for  —  indeed,  the  object  for  which  she  had 
come  hither,  and  which  had  kept  her  here  for 
three  years  past  —  was  to  obtain  possession 
of  these  material  and  unquestionable  proofs 
of  the  authenticity  of  her  theory. 

She  communicated  all  this  strange  mat 
ter  in  a  low,  quiet  tone ;  while,  on  my  part, 
I  listened  as  quietly,  and  without  any  ex 
pression  of  dissent.  Controversy  against 
a  faith  so  settled  would  have  shut  her  up 
at  once,  and  that,  too,  without  in  the  least 
weakening  her  belief  in  the  existence  of 
those  treasures  of  the  tomb  ;  and  had  it 
been  possible  to  convince  her  of  their  in 
tangible  nature,  I  apprehend  that  there 
would  have  been  nothing  left  for  the  poor 
enthusiast  save  to  collapse  and  die.  She 
frankly  confessed  that  she  could  no  longer 


i;8  OUR   OLD  HOME 

bear  the  society  of  those  who  did  not  at 
least  lend  a  certain  sympathy  to  her  views, 
if  not  fully  share  in  them  ;  and  meeting 
little  sympathy  or  none,  she  had  now  en 
tirely  secluded  herself  from  the  world.  In 
all  these  years,  she  had  seen  Mrs.  Farrar  a 
few  times,  but  had  long  ago  given  her  up ; 
Carlyle  once  or  twice,  but  not  of  late,  al 
though  he  had  received  her  kindly;  Mr. 
Buchanan,  while  Minister  in  England,  had 
once  called  on  her ;  and  General  Campbell, 
our  Consul  in  London,  had  met  her  two  or 
three  times  on  business.  With  these  ex 
ceptions,  which  she  marked  so  scrupulously 
that  it  was  perceptible  what  epochs  they 
were  in  the  monotonous  passage  of  her 
days,  she  had  lived  in  the  profoundest  soli 
tude.  She  never  walked  out  ;  she  suffered 
much  from  ill-health ;  and  yet,  she  assured 
me,  she  was  perfectly  happy. 

I  could  well  conceive  it ;  for  Miss  Bacon 
imagined  herself  to  have  received  (what  is 
certainly  the  greatest  boon  ever  assigned 
to  mortals)  a  high  mission  in  the  world,  with 
adequate  powers  for  its  accomplishment ; 
and  lest  even  these  should  prove  insuffi 
cient,  she  had  faith  that  special  interposi 
tions  of  Providence  were  forwarding  her 
human  efforts.  This  idea  was  continually 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  1 79 

coming  to  the  surface,  during  our  interview. 
She  believed,  for  example,  that  she  had  been 
providentially  led  to  her  lodging-house,  and 
put  in  relations  with  the  good-natured  gro 
cer  and  his  family  ;  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
considering  what  a  savage  and  stealthy  tribe 
the  London  lodging-house  keepers  usually 
are,  the  honest  kindness  of  this  man  and 
his  household  appeared  to  have  been  little 
less  than  miraculous.  Evidently,  too,  she 
thought  that  Providence  had  brought  me 
forward  —  a  man  somewhat  connected  with 
literature — at  the  critical  juncture  when 
she  needed  a  negotiator  with  the  book 
sellers  ;  and,  on  my  part,  though  little  ac 
customed  to  regard  myself  as  a  divine 
minister,  and  though  I  might  even  have 
preferred  that  Providence  should  select 
some  other  instrument,  I  had  no  scruple  in 
undertaking  to  do  what  I  could  for  her. 
Her  book,  as  I  could  see  by  turning  it  over, 
was  a  very  remarkable  one,  and  worthy  of 
being  offered  to  the  public,  which,  if  wise 
enough  to  appreciate  it,  would  be  thankful 
for  what  was  good  in  it  and  merciful  to 
its  faults.  It  was  founded  on  a  prodigious 
error,  but  was  built  up  from  that  foundation 
with  a  good  many  prodigious  truths.  And, 
at  all  events,  whether  I  could  aid  her  liter- 


180  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ary  views  or  no,  it  would  have  been  both 
rash  and  impertinent  in  me  to  attempt 
drawing  poor  Miss  Bacon  out  of  her  delu 
sions,  which  were  the  condition  on  which 
she  lived  in  comfort  and  joy,  and  in  the 
exercise  of  great  intellectual  power.  So  I 
left  her  to  dream  as  she  pleased  about  the 
treasures  of  Shakespeare's  tombstone,  and 
to  form  whatever  designs  might  seem  good 
to  herself  for  obtaining  possession  of  them. 
I  was  sensible  of  a  lady-like  feeling  of  pro 
priety  in  Miss  Bacon,  and  a  New  England 
orderliness  in  her  character,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  bewilderment,  a  sturdy  common 
sense,  which  I  trusted  would  begin  to  op 
erate  at  the  right  time,  and  keep  her  from 
any  actual  extravagance.  And  as  regarded 
this  matter  of  the  tombstone,  so  it  proved. 
The  interview  lasted  above  an  hour,  dur 
ing  which  she  flowed  out  freely,  as  to  the 
sole  auditor,  capable  of  any  degree  of  in 
telligent  sympathy,  whom  she  had  met  with 
in  a  very  long  while.  Her  conversation 
was  remarkably  suggestive,  alluring  forth 
one's  own  ideas  and  fantasies  from  the  shy 
places  where  they  usually  haunt.  She  was 
indeed  an  admirable  talker,  considering  how 
long  she  had  held  her  tongue  for  lack  of  a 
listener,  —  pleasant,  sunny,  and  shadowy, 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  l8l 

often  piquant,  and  giving  glimpses  of  all 
a  woman's  various  and  readily  changeable 
moods  and  humors ;  and  beneath  them  all 
there  ran  a  deep  and  powerful  undercurrent 
of  earnestness,  which  did  not  fail  to  produce 
in  the  listener's  mind  something  like  a 
temporary  faith  in  what  she  herself  believed 
so  fervently.  But  the  streets  of  London 
are  not  favorable  to  enthusiasms  of  this 
kind,  nor,  in  fact,  are  they  likely  to  flourish 
anywhere  in  the  English  atmosphere  ;  so 
that,  long  before  reaching  Paternoster  Row, 
I  felt  that  it  would  be  a  difficult  and  doubt 
ful  matter  to  advocate  the  publication  of 
Miss  Bacon's  book.  Nevertheless,  it  did 
finally  get  published. 

Months  before  that  happened,  however, 
Miss  Bacon  had  taken  up  her  residence  at 
Stratford-on-Avon,  drawn  thither  by  the 
magnetism  of  those  rich  secrets  which  she 
supposed  to  have  been  hidden  by  Raleigh, 
or  Bacon,  or  I  know  not  whom,  in  Shake 
speare's  grave,  and  protected  there  by  a 
curse,  as  pirates  used  to  bury  their  gold  in 
the  guardianship  of  a  fiend.  She  took  a 
humble  lodging  and  began  to  haunt  the 
church  like  a  ghost.  But  she  did  not  con 
descend  to  any  stratagem  or  underhand 
attempt  to  violate  the  grave,  which,  had  she 


1 82  OUR   OLD  HOME 

been  capable  of  admitting  such  an  idea, 
might  possibly  have  been  accomplished  by 
the  aid  of  a  resurrection-man.  As  her  first 
step,  she  made  acquaintance  with  the  clerk, 
and  began  to  sound  him  as  to  the  feasibility 
of  her  enterprise  and  his  own  willingness 
to  engage  in  it.  The  clerk  apparently 
listened  with  not  unfavorable  ears ;  but  as 
his  situation  (which  the  fees  of  pilgrims, 
more  numerous  than  at  any  Catholic  shrine, 
render  lucrative)  would  have  been  forfeited 
by  any  malfeasance  in  office,  he  stipulated 
for  liberty  to  consult  the  vicar.  Miss  Bacon 
requested  to  tell  her  own  story  to  the  rev 
erend  gentleman,  and  seems  to  have  been 
received  by  him  with  the  utmost  kindness, 
and  even  to  have  succeeded  in  making  a 
certain  impression  on  his  mind  as  to  the 
desirability  of  the  search.  As  their  inter 
view  had  been  under  the  seal  of  secrecy, 
he  asked  permission  to  consult  a  friend, 
who,  as  Miss  Bacon  either  found  out  or 
surmised,  was  a  practitioner  of  the  law. 
What  the  legal  friend  advised  she  did  not 
learn ;  but  the  negotiation  continued,  and 
certainly  was  never  broken  off  by  an  abso 
lute  refusal  on  the  vicar's  part.  He,  per 
haps,  was  kindly  temporizing  with  our  poor 
countrywoman,  whom  an  Englishman  of 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  183 

ordinary  mould  would  have  sent  to  a  lunatic 
asylum  at  once.  I  cannot  help  fancying, 
however,  that  her  familiarity  with  the  events 
of  Shakespeare's  life,  and  of  his  death  and 
burial  (of  which  she  would  speak  as  if  she 
had  been  present  at  the  edge  of  the  grave), 
and  all  the  history,  literature,  and  person 
alities  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  together  with 
the  prevailing  power  of  her  own  belief,  and 
the  eloquence  with  which  she  knew  how  to 
enforce  it,  had  really  gone  some  little  way 
toward  making  a  convert  of  the  good  clergy 
man.  If  so,  I  honor  him  above  all  the 
hierarchy  of  England. 

The  affair  certainly  looked  very  hopeful. 
However  erroneously,  Miss  Bacon  had  un 
derstood  from  the  vicar  that  no  obstacles 
would  be  interposed  to  the  investigation, 
and  that  he  himself  would  sanction  it  with 
his  presence.  It  was  to  take  place  after 
nightfall ;  and  all  preliminary  arrangements 
being  made,  the  vicar  and  clerk  professed 
to  wait  only  her  word  in  order  to  set  about 
lifting  the  awful  stone  from  the  sepulchre. 
So,  at  least,  Miss  Bacon  believed ;  and  as 
her  bewilderment  was  entirely  in  her  own 
thoughts,  and  never  disturbed  her  percep 
tion  or  accurate  remembrance  of  external 
things,  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it,  except 


184  OUR   OLD  HOME 

it  be  the  tinge  of  absurdity  in  the  fact. 
But,  in  this  apparently  prosperous  state  of 
things,  her  own  convictions  began  to  falter. 
A  doubt  stole  into  her  mind  whether  she 
might  not  have  mistaken  the  depository 
and  mode  of  concealment  of  those  historic 
treasures;  and,  after  once  admitting  the 
doubt,  she  was  afraid  to  hazard  the  shock 
of  uplifting  the  stone  and  finding  nothing. 
She  examined  the  surface  of  the  grave 
stone,  and  endeavored,  without  stirring  it, 
to  estimate  whether  it  were  of  such  thick 
ness  as  to  be  capable  of  containing  the 
archives  of  the  Elizabethan  club.  She  went 
over  anew  the  proofs,  the  clues,  the  enig 
mas,  the  pregnant  sentences,  which  she  had 
discovered  in  Bacon's  Letters  and  else 
where,  and  now  was  frightened  to  perceive 
that  they  did  not  point  so  definitely  to 
Shakespeare's  tomb  as  she  had  heretofore 
supposed.  There  was  an  unmistakably 
distinct  reference  to  a  tomb,  but  it  might 
be  Bacon's,  or  Raleigh's,  or  Spenser's ; 
and  instead  of  the  "  Old  Player,  "  as  she 
profanely  called  him,  it  might  be  either  of 
those  three  illustrious  dead,  poet,  warrior, 
or  statesman,  whose  ashes,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  or  the  Tower  burial-ground,  or 
wherever  they  sleep,  it  was  her  mission  to 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  185 

disturb.  It  is  very  possible,  moreover,  that 
her  acute  mind  may  always  have  had  a 
lurking  and  deeply  latent  distrust  of  its  own 
fantasies,  and  that  this  now  became  strong 
enough  to  restrain  her  from  a  decisive 
step. 

But  she  continued  to  hover  around  the 
church,  and  seems  to  have  had  full  freedom 
of  entrance  in  the  daytime,  and  special 
license,  on  one  occasion  at  least,  at  a  late 
hour  of  the  night.  She  went  thither  with 
a  dark-lantern,  which  could  but  twinkle  like 
a  glow-worm  through  the  volume  of  ob 
scurity  that  filled  the  great  dusky  edifice. 
Groping  her  way  up  the  aisle  and  towards 
the  chancel,  she  sat  down  on  the  elevated 
part  of  the  pavement  above  Shakespeare's 
grave.  If  the  divine  poet  really  wrote  the 
inscription  there,  and  cared  as  much  about 
the  quiet  of  his  bones  as  its  deprecatory 
earnestness  would  imply,  it  was  time  for 
those  crumbling  relics  to  bestir  themselves 
under  her  sacrilegious  feet.  But  they  were 
safe.  She  made  no  attempt  to  disturb 
them  ;  though,  I  believe,  she  looked  nar 
rowly  into  the  crevices  between  Shake 
speare's  and  the  two  adjacent  stones,  and 
in  some  way  satisfied  herself  that  her  single 
strength  would  suffice  to  lift  the  former,  in 


1 86  OUR   OLD  HOME 

case  of  need.  She  threw  the  feeble  ray  of 
her  lantern  up  towards  the  bust,  but  could 
not  make  it  visible  beneath  the  darkness 
of  the  vaulted  roof.  Had  shebeen  subject 
to  superstitious  terrors,  it  is  impossible  to 
conceive  of  a  situation  that  could  better 
entitle  her  to  feel  them,  for,  if  Shakespeare's 
ghost  would  rise  at  any  provocation,  it  must 
have  shown  itself  then  ;  but  it  is  my  sin 
cere  belief  that,  if  his  figure  had  appeared 
within  the  scope  of  her  dark-lantern,  in  his 
slashed  doublet  and  gown,  and  with  his 
eyes  bent  on  her  beneath  the  high,  bald 
forehead,  just  as  we  see  him  in  the  bust, 
she  would  have  met  him  fearlessly,  and 
controverted  his  claims  to  the  authorship 
of  the  plays,  to  his  very  face.  She  had 
taught  herself  to  contemn  "  Lord  Leices 
ter's  groom  "  (it  was  one  of  her  disdainful 
epithets  for  the  world's  incomparable  poet) 
so  thoroughly,  that  even  his  disembodied 
spirit  would  hardly  have  found  civil  treat 
ment  at  Miss  Bacon's  hands. 

Her  vigil,  though  it  appears  to  have  had 
no  definite  object,  continued  far  into  the 
night.  Several  times  she  heard  a  low  move 
ment  in  the  aisles  :  a  stealthy,  dubious  foot 
fall  prowling  about  in  the  darkness,  now 
here,  now  there,  among  the  pillars  and  an- 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN"  l8/ 

cient  tombs,  as  if  some  restless  inhabitant 
of  the  latter  had  crept  forth  to  peep  at  the 
intruder.  By  and  by  the  clerk  made  his 
appearance,  and  confessed  that  he  had  been 
watching  her  ever  since  she  entered  the 
church. 

About  this  time  it  was  that  a  strange 
sort  of  weariness  seems  to  have  fallen  upon 
her  :  her  toil  was  all  but  done,  her  great 
purpose,  as  she  believed,  on  the  very  point 
of  accomplishment,  when  she  began  to  re 
gret  that  so  stupendous  a  mission  had  been 
imposed  on  the  fragility  of  a  woman.  Her 
faith  in  the  new  philosophy  was  as  mighty 
as  ever,  and  so  was  her  confidence  in  her 
own  adequate  development  of  it,  now  about 
to  be  given  to  the  world  ;  yet  she  wished, 
or  fancied  so,  that  it  might  never  have  been 
her  duty  to  achieve  this  unparalleled  task, 
and  to  stagger  feebly  forward  under  her 
immense  burden  of  responsibility  and  re 
nown.  So  far  as  her  personal  concern  in 
the  matter  went,  she  would  gladly  have 
forfeited  the  reward  of  her  patient  study 
and  labor  for  so  many  years,  her  exile  from 
her  country  and  estrangement  from  her 
family  and  friends,  her  sacrifice  of  health 
and  all  other  interests  to  this  one  pursuit, 
if  she  could  only  find  herself  free  to  dwell 


1 88  OUR   OLD   HOME 

in  Stratford  and  be  forgotten.  She  liked 
the  old  slumberous  town,  and  awarded  the 
only  praise  that  ever  I  knew  her  to  bestow 
on  Shakespeare,  the  individual  man,  by 
acknowledging  that  his  taste  in  a  residence 
was  good,  and  that  he  knew  how  to  choose 
a  suitable  retirement  for  a  person  of  shy, 
but  genial  temperament.  And  at  this  point, 
I  cease  to  possess  the  means  of  tracing  her 
vicissitudes  of  feeling  any  further.  In 
consequence  of  some  advice  which  I  fancied 
it  my  duty  to  tender,  as  being  the  only 
confidant  whom  she  now  had  in  the  world, 
I  fell  under  Miss  Bacon's  most  severe  and 
passionate  displeasure,  and  was  cast  off  by 
her  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  It  was  a 
misfortune  to  which  her  friends  were  always 
particularly  liable ;  but  I  think  that  none 
of  them  ever  loved,  or  even  respected,  her 
most  ingenuous  and  noble,  but  likewise 
most  sensitive  and  tumultuous  character, 
the  less  for  it. 

At  that  time  her  book  was  passing 
through  the  press.  Without  prejudice  to 
her  literary  ability,  it  must  be  allowed  that 
Miss  Bacon  was  wholly  unfit  to  prepare  her 
own  work  for  publication,  because,  among 
many  other  reasons,  she  was  too  thoroughly 
in  earnest  to  know  what  to  leave  out. 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  189 

Every  leaf  and  line  was  sacred,  for  all  had 
been  written  under  so  deep  a  conviction  of 
truth  as  to  assume,  in  her  eyes,  the  aspect 
of  inspiration.  A  practiced  book-maker, 
with  entire  control  of  her  materials,  would 
have  shaped  out  a  duodecimo  volume  full 
of  eloquent  and  ingenious  dissertation, — 
criticisms  which  quite  take  the  color  and 
pungency  out  of  other  people's  critical  re 
marks  on  Shakespeare,  —  philosophic  truths 
which  she  imagined  herself  to  have  found 
at  the  roots  of  his  conceptions,  and  which 
certainly  come  from  no  inconsiderable 
depth  somewhere.  There  was  a  great 
amount  of  rubbish,  which  any  competent 
editor  would  have  shoveled  out  of  the  way. 
But  Miss  Bacon  thrust  the  whole  bulk  of 
inspiration  and  nonsense  into  the  press  in 
a  lump,  and  there  tumbled  out  a  ponderous 
octavo  volume,  which  fell  with  a  dead 
thump  at  the  feet  of  the  public,  and  has 
never  been  picked  up.  A  few  persons 
turned  over  one  or  two  of  the  leaves,  as  it 
lay  there,  and  essayed  to  kick  the  volume 
deeper  into  the  mud ;  for  they  were  the 
hack  critics  of  the  minor  periodical  press 
in  London,  than  whom,  I  suppose,  though 
excellent  fellows  in  their  way,  there  are  no 
gentlemen  in  the  world  less  sensible  of  any 


1 90  OUR   OLD  HOME 

sanctity  in  a  book,  or  less  likely  to  recog 
nize  an  author's  heart  in  it,  or  more  utterly 
careless  about  bruising,  if  they  do  recog 
nize  it.  It  is  their  trade.  They  could  not 
do  otherwise.  I  never  thought  of  blaming 
them.  It  was  not  for  such  an  Englishman 
as  one  of  these  to  get  beyond  the  idea  that 
an  assault  was  meditated  on  England's 
greatest  poet.  From  the  scholars  and 
critics  of  her  own  country,  indeed,  Miss 
Bacon  might  have  looked  for  a  worthier 
appreciation,  because  many  of  the  best  of 
them  have  higher  cultivation,  and  finer  and 
deeper  literary  sensibilities  than  all  but  the 
very  profoundest  and  brightest  of  English 
men.  But  they  are  not  a  courageous  body 
of  men  ;  they  dare  not  think  a  truth  that 
has  an  odor  of  absurdity,  lest  they  should 
feel  themselves  bound  to  speak  it  out.  If 
any  American  ever  wrote  a  word  in  her 
behalf,  Miss  Bacon  never  knew  it,  nor  did  I. 
Our  journalists  at  once  published  some  of 
the  most  brutal  vituperations  of  the  English 
press,  thus  pelting  their  poor  country 
woman  with  stolen  mud,  without  even  wait 
ing,  to  know  whether  the  ignominy  was 
deserved.  And  they  never  have  known  it, 
to  this  day,  nor  ever  will. 

The  next  intelligence  that  I  had  of  Miss 


A    GIFTED    WOMAN  1 91 

Bacon  was  by  a  letter  from  the  mayor  of 
Stratford-on-Avon.  He  was  a  medical  man, 
and  wrote  both  in  his  official  and  profes 
sional  character,  telling  me  that  an  Ameri 
can  lady,  who  had  recently  published  what 
the  mayor  called  a  "  Shakespeare  book, " 
was  afflicted  with  insanity.  In  a  lucid  in 
terval  she  had  referred  to  me,  as  a  person 
who  had  some  knowledge  of  her  family  and 
affairs.  What  she  may  have  suffered  be 
fore  her  intellect  gave  way,  we  had  better 
not  try  to  imagine.  No  author  had  ever 
hoped  so  confidently  as  she  ;  none  ever 
failed  more  utterly.  A  superstitious  fancy 
might  suggest  that  the  anathema  on  Shake 
speare's  tombstone  had  fallen  heavily  on 
her  head,  in  requital  of  even  the  unaccom 
plished  purpose  of  disturbing  the  dust  be 
neath,  and  that  the  "  Old  Player  "  had  kept 
so  quietly  in  his  grave,  on  the  night  of  her 
vigil,  because  he  foresaw  how  soon  and 
terribly  he  would  be  avenged.  But  if  that 
benign  spirit  takes  any  care  or  cognizance 
of  such  things  now,  he  has  surely  requited 
the  injustice  that  she  sought  to  do  him  — 
the  high  justice  that  she  really  did  —  by  a 
tenderness  of  love  and  pity  of  which  only 
he  could  be  capable.  What  matters  it 
though  she  called  him  by  some  other  name  ? 


1 92  OUR   OLD  HOME 

He  had  wrought  a  greater  miracle  on  her 
than  on  all  the  world  besides.  This  bewil 
dered  enthusiast  had  recognized  a  depth  in 
the  man  whom  she  decried,  which  scholars, 
critics,  and  learned  societies,  devoted  to  the 
elucidation  of  his  unrivaled  scenes,  had 
never  imagined  to  exist  there.  She  had 
paid  him  the  loftiest  honor  that  all  these 
ages  of  renown  have  been  able  to  accumu 
late  upon  his  memory.  And  when,  not 
many  months  after  the  outward  failure  of 
her  lifelong  object,  she  passed  into  the 
better  world,  I  know  not  why  we  should 
hesitate  to  believe  that  the  immortal  poet 
may  have  met  her  on  the  threshold  and  led 
her  in,  reassuring  her  with  friendly  and 
comfortable  words,  and  thanking  her  (yet 
with  a  smile  of  gentle  humor  in  his  eyes  at 
the  thought  of  certain  mistaken  specula 
tions)  for  having  interpreted  him  to  man 
kind  so  well. 

I  believe  that  it  has  been  the  fate  of  this 
remarkable  book  never  to  have  had  more 
than  a  single  reader.  I  myself  am  ac 
quainted  with  it  only  in  insulated  chapters 
and  scattered  pages  and  paragraphs.  But, 
since  my  return  to  America,  a  young  man 
of  genius  and  enthusiasm  has  assured  me 
that  he  has  positively  read  the  book  from 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN 


193 


beginning  to  end,  and  is  completely  a  con. 
vert  to  its  doctrines.  It  belongs  to  him, 
therefore,  and  not  to  me,  —  whom,  in  al 
most  the  last  letter  that  I  received  from 
her,  she  declared  unworthy  to  meddle  with 
her  work,  —  it  belongs  surely  to  this  one 
individual,  who  has  done  her  so  much  jus 
tice  as  to  know  what  she  wrote,  to  place 
Miss  Bacon  in  her  due  position  before  the 
public  and  posterity. 

This  has  been  too  sad  a  story.  To  lighten 
the  recollection  of  it,  I  will  think  of  my 
stroll  homeward  past  Charlecote  Park, 
where  I  beheld  the  most  stately  elms, 
singly,  in  clumps,  and  in  groves,  scattered 
all  about  in  the  sunniest,  shadiest,  sleepiest 
fashion  ;  so  that  I  could  not  but  believe  in 
lengthened,  loitering,  drowsy  enjoyment 
which  these  trees  must  have  in  their  ex 
istence.  Diffused  over  slow-paced  cen 
turies,  it  need  not  be  keen  nor  bubble  into 
thrills  and  ecstasies,  like  the  momentary 
delights  of  short-lived  human  beings.  They 
were  civilized  trees,  known  to  man,  and 
befriended  by  him  for  ages  past.  There  is 
an  indescribable  difference  —  as  I  believe  I 
have  heretofore  endeavored  to  express  — 
between  the  tamed,  but  by  no  means  effete 
(on  the  contrary,  the  richer  and  more  lux- 


194  OUR    OLD 

uriant),  nature  of  England,  and  the  rude, 
shaggy,  barbarous  nature  which  offers  us 
its  racier  companionship  in  America.  No 
less  a  change  has  been  wrought  among  the 
wildest  creatures  that  inhabit  what  the 
English  call  their  forests.  By  and  by, 
among  those  refined  and  venerable  trees,  I 
saw  a  large  herd  of  deer,  mostly  reclining, 
but  some  standing  in  picturesque  groups, 
while  the  stags  threw  their  large  antlers 
aloft,  as  if  they  had  been  taught  to  make 
themselves  tributary  to  the  scenic  effect. 
Some  were  running  fleetly  about,  vanishing 
from  light  into  shadow  and  glancing  forth 
again,  with  here  and  there  a  little  fawn 
careering  at  its  mother's  heels.  These 
deer  are  almost  in  the  same  relation  to  the 
wild,  natural  state  of  their  kind  that  the 
trees  of  an  English  park  hold  to  the  rugged 
growth  of  an  American  forest.  They  have 
held  a  certain  intercourse  with  man  for  im 
memorial  years  ;  and,  most  probably,  the 
stag  that  Shakespeare  killed  was  one  of 
the  progenitors  of  this  very  herd,  and  may 
himself  have  been  a  partly  civilized  and 
humanized  deer,  though  in  a  less  degree 
than  these  remote  posterity.  They  are  a 
little  wilder  than  sheep,  but  they  do  not 
snuff  the  air  at  the  approach  of  human  be- 


A    GIFTED  WOMAN  195 

ings,  nor  evince  much  alarm  at  their  pretty 
close  proximity ;  although  if  you  continue 
to  advance,  they  toss  their  heads  and  take 
to  their  heels  in  a  kind  of  mimic  terror,  or 
something  akin  to  feminine  skittishness, 
with  a  dim  remembrance  or  tradition,  as  it 
were,  of  their  having  come  of  a  wild  stock. 
They  have  so  long  been  fed  and  protected  d 
by  man,  that  they  must  have  lost  many  of 
their  native  instincts,  and,  I  suppose,  could 
not  live  comfortably  through  even  an  Eng 
lish  winter  without  human  help.  One  is 
sensible  of  a  gentle  scorn  at  them  for  such 
dependency,  but  feels  none  the  less  kindly 
disposed  towards  the  half -domesticated 
race  ;  and  it  may  have  been  his  observation 
of  these  tamer  characteristics  in  the  Char- 
lecote  herd  that  suggested  to  Shakespeare 
the  tender  and  pitiful  description  of  a 
wounded  stag,  in  "As  You  Like  It." 

At  a  distance  of  some  hundreds  of  yards 
from  Charlecote  Hall,  and  almost  hidden  by 
the  trees  between  it  and  the  roadside,  is  an 
old  brick  archway  and  porter's  lodge.  In 
connection  with  this  entrance  there  appears 
to  have  been  a  wall  and  an  ancient  moat, 
the  latter  of  which  is  still  visible,  a  shallow, 
grassy  scoop  along  the  base  of  an  embank 
ment  of  the  lawn.  About  fifty  yards  with- 


196  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  the  gateway  stands  the  house,  forming 
three  sides  of  a  square,  with  three  gables 
in  a  row  on  the  front,  and  on  each  of  the 
two  wings  ;  and  there  are  several  towers 
and  turrets  at  the  angles,  together  with 
projecting  windows,  antique  balconies,  and 
other  quaint  ornaments  suitable  to  the  half- 
Gothic  taste  in  which  the  edifice  was  built. 
Over  the  gateway  is  the  Lucy  coat  of  arms, 
emblazoned  in  its  proper  colors.  The 
mansion  dates  from  the  early  days  of  Eliza 
beth,  and  probably  looked  very  much  the 
same  as  now  when  Shakespeare  was  brought 
before  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  for  outrages  among 
his  deer.  The  impression  is  not  that  of 
gray  antiquity,  but  of  stable  and  time-hon 
ored  gentility,  still  as  vital  as  ever. 

It  is  a  most  delightful  place.  All  about 
the  house  and  domain  there  is  a  perfection 
of  comfort  and  domestic  taste,  an  amplitude 
of  convenience,  which  could  have  been 
brought  about  only  by  the  slow  ingenuity 
and  labor  of  many  successive  generations, 
intent  upon  adding  all  possible  improve 
ment  to  the  home  where  years  gone  by  and 
years  to  come  give  a  sort  of  permanence  to 
the  intangible  present.  An  American  is 
sometimes  tempted  to  fancy  that  only  by 
this  long  process  can  real  homes  be  pro- 


A    GIFTED   WOMAN  197 

duced.1  One  man's  lifetime  is  not  enough 
for  the  accomplishment  of  such  a  work  of 
art  and  nature,  almost  the  greatest  merely 
temporary  one  that  is  confided  to  him  ;  too 
little,  at  any  rate,  —  yet  perhaps  too  long 
when  he  is  discouraged  by  the  idea  that  he 
must  make  his  house  warm  and  delightful 
for  a  miscellaneous  race  of  successors,  of 
whom  the  one  thing  certain  is,  that  his 
own  grandchildren  will  not  be  among  them. 
Such  repinings  as  are  here  suggested,  how 
ever,  come  only  from  the  fact  that,  bred  in 
English  habits  of  thought,  as  most  of  us 
are,  we  have  not  yet  modified  our  instincts 
to  the  necessities  of  our  new  forms  of  life. 
A  lodging  in  a  wigwam  or  under  a  tent 
has  really  as  many  advantages,  when  we 

1  It  is  a  wonder  to  behold  —  and  it  is  always  a  new 
wonder  to  me  —  how  comfortable  Englishmen  know  how 
to  make  themselves ;  locating  their  dwellings  far  within 
private  grounds,  with  secure  gateways  and  porters' 
lodges,  and  the  smoothest  roads,  and  trimmest  paths,  and 
shaven  lawns,  and  clumps  of  trees,  and  every  bit  of  the 
ground,  every  hill  and  dell,  made  the  most  of  for  conven 
ience  and  beauty,  and  so  well  kept  that  even  winter  can 
not  cause  disarray  ;  and  all  this  appropriated  to  the  same 
family  for  generations,  so  that  I  suppose  they  come  to 
believe  it  created  exclusively  and  on  purpose  for  them. 
And,  really,  the  result  is  good  and  beautiful.  It  is  a 
home,  —  an  institution  which  we  Americans  have  not ; 
but  then  I  doubt  whether  anybody  is  entitled  to  a  home 
in  this  world,  in  so  full  a  sense.  —  I.  558. 


198  OUR    OLD   HOME 

come  to  know  them,  as  a  home  beneath  the 
roof-tree  of  Charlecote  Hall.  But,  alas  !  our 
philosophers  have  not  yet  taught  us  what 
is  best,  nor  have  our  poets  sung  us  what  is 
beautifullest,  in  the  kind  of  life  that  we 
must  lead  ;  and  therefore  we  still  read  the 
old  English  wisdom,  and  harp  upon  the 
ancient  strings.  And  thence  it  happens 
that,  when  we  look  at  a  time-honored  hall, 
it  seems  more  possible  for  men  who  inherit 
such  a  home,  than  for  ourselves,  to  lead 
noble  and  graceful  lives,  quietly  doing  good 
and  lovely  things  as  their  daily  work,  and 
achieving  deeds  of  simple  greatness  when 
circumstances  require  them.  I  sometimes 
apprehend  that  our  institutions  may  perish 
before  we  shall  have  discovered  the  most 
precious  of  the  possibilities  which  they 
involve. 


V. 

LICHFIELD   AND   UTTOXETER. 

AFTER  my  first  visit  to  Leamington  Spa, 
I  went  by  an  indirect  route  to  Lichfield, 
and  put  up  at  the  Black  Swan.  Had  I 
known  where  to  find  it,  I  would  much  rather 
have  established  myself  at  the  inn  formerly 
kept  by  the  worthy  Mr.  Boniface,  so  famous 
for  his  ale  in  Farquhar's  time.  The  Black 
Swan  is  an  old-fashioned  hotel,  its  street- 
front  being  penetrated  by  an  arched  pas 
sage,  in  either  side  of  which  is  an  entrance- 
door  to  the  different  parts  of  the  house, 
and  through  which,  and  over  the  large 
stones  of  its  pavement,  all  vehicles  and 
horsemen  rumble  and  clatter  into  an  in 
closed  court-yard,  with  a  thunderous  uproar 
among  the  contiguous  rooms  and  chambers. 
I  appeared  to  be  the  only  guest  of  the  spa 
cious  establishment,  but  may  have  had  a 
few  fellow-lodgers  hidden  in  their  separate 
parlors,  and  utterly  eschewing  that  com 
munity  of  interests  which  is  the  character 
istic  feature  of  life  in  an  American  hotel. 


200  OUR   OLD   HOME 

At  any  rate,  I  had  the  great,  dull,  dingy, 
and  dreary  coffee-room,  with  its  heavy  old 
mahogany  chairs  and  tables,  all  to  myself, 
and  not  a  soul  to  exchange  a  word  with, 
except  the  waiter,  who,  like  most  of  his 
class  in  England,  had  evidently  left  his 
conversational  abilities  uncultivated.  No 
former  practice  of  solitary  living,  nor  hab 
its  of  reticence,  nor  well-tested  self-depen 
dence  for  occupation  of  mind  and  amuse 
ment,  can  quite  avail,  as  I  now  proved,  to 
dissipate  the  ponderous  gloom  of  an  Eng 
lish  coffee-room  under  such  circumstances 
as  these,  with  no  book  at  hand  save  the 
county  directory,  nor  any  newspaper  but  a 
torn  local  journal  of  five  days  ago.  So  I 
buried  myself,  betimes,  in  a  huge  heap  of 
ancient  feathers  (there  is  no  other  kind  of 
bed  in  these  old  inns),  let  my  head  sink 
into  an  unsubstantial  pillow,  and  slept  a 
stifled  sleep,  infested  with  such  a  fragmen 
tary  confusion  of  dreams  that  I  took  them 
to  be  a  medley,  compounded  of  the  night 
troubles  of  all  my  predecessors  in  that  same 
unrestful  couch.  And  when  I  awoke,  the 
musty  odor  of  a  by-gone  century  was  in 
my  nostrils,  —  a  faint,  elusive  smell,  of 
which  I  never  had  any  conception  before 
crossing  the  Atlantic. 


LICHFIELD   AND    UTTOXETER      2OI 

In  the  morning,  after  a  mutton-chop  and 
a  cup  of  chiccory  in  the  dusky  coffee-room, 
I  went  forth  and  bewildered  myself  a  little 
while  among  the  crooked  streets,  in  quest 
of  one  or  two  objects  that  had  chiefly  at 
tracted  me  to  the  spot.  The  city  is  of  very 
ancient  date,  and  its  name  in  the  old  Saxon 
tongue  has  a  dismal  import  that  would  ap 
ply  well,  in  these  days  and  forever  hence 
forward,  to  many  an  unhappy  locality  in 
our  native  land.  Lichfield  signifies  "The 
Field  of  the  Dead  Bodies," — an  epithet,' 
however,  which  the  town  did  not  assume  in 
remembrance  of  a  battle,  but  which  prob 
ably  sprung  up  by  a  natural  process,  like  a 
sprig  of  rue  or  other  funereal  weed,  out  of 
the  graves  of  two  princely  brothers,  sons  of 
a  pagan  king  of  Mercia,  who  were  converted 
by  St.  Chad,  and  afterwards  martyred  for 
their  Christian  faith.  Nevertheless,  I  was 
but  little  interested  in  the  legends  of  the 
remote  antiquity  of  Lichfield,  being  drawn 
thither  partly  to  see  its  beautiful  cathedral, 
and  still  more,  I  believe,  because  it  was  the 
birthplace  of  Dr.  Johnson,  with  whose 
sturdy  English  character  I  became  ac 
quainted,  at  a  very  early  period  of  my  life, 
through  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Boswell 
In  truth,  he  seems  as  familiar  to  my  recol- 


2O2  OUR   OLD  HOME 

lection,  and  almost  as  vivid  in  his  personal 
aspect  to  my  mind's  eye,  as  the  kindly 
figure  of  my  own  grandfather.  It  is  only  a 
solitary  child,  —  left  much  to  such  wild 
modes  of  culture  as  he  chooses  for  himself 
while  yet  ignorant  what  culture  means, 
standing  on  tiptoe  to  pull  down  books  from 
no  very  lofty  shelf,  and  then  shutting  him 
self  up,  as  it  were,  between  the  leaves, 
going  astray  through  the  volume  at  his 
own  pleasure,  and  comprehending  it  rather 
by  his  sensibilities  and  affections  than  his 
intellect,  —  that  child  is  the  only  student 
that  ever  gets  the  sort  of  intimacy  which  I 
am  now  thinking  of  with  a  literary  person 
age.  I  do  not  remember,  indeed,  ever  car 
ing  much  about  any  of  the  stalwart  Doctor's 
grandiloquent  productions,  except  his  two 
stern  and  masculine  poems,  "  London," 
and  "  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes ; "  it 
was  as  a  man,  a  talker,  and  a  humorist,  that 
I  knew  and  loved  him,  appreciating  many 
of  his  qualities  perhaps  more  thoroughly 
than  I  do  now,  though  never  seeking  to  put 
my  instinctive  perception  of  his  character 
into  language. 

Beyond  all  question,  I  might  have  had  a 
wiser  friend  than  he.  The  atmosphere  in 
which  alone  he  breathed  was  dense;  his 


LICHFIELD  AND    UTTOXETER      203 

awful  dread  of  death  showed  how  much 
muddy  imperfection  was  to  be  cleansed  out 
of  him,  before  he  could  be  capable  of  spir 
itual  existence  ;  he  meddled  only  with  the 
'surface  of  life,  and  never  cared  to  penetrate 
further  than  to  ploughshare  depth ;  his 
very  sense  and  sagacity  were  but  a  one- 
eyed  clear-sightedness.  I  laughed  at  him, 
sometimes,  standing  beside  his  knee.  And 
yet,  considering  that  my  native  propensities 
were  towards  Fairy  Land,  and  also  how 
much  yeast  is  generally  mixed  up  with  the 
mental  sustenance  of  a  New  Englander,  it 
may  not  have  been  altogether  amiss,  in 
those  childish  and  boyish  days,  to  keep  pace 
with  this  heavy-footed  traveler,  and  feed 
on  the  gross  diet  that  he  carried  in  his 
knapsack.  It  is  wholesome  food  even  now. 
And,  then,  how  English !  Many  of  the 
latent  sympathies  that  enabled  me  to 'enjoy 
the  Old  Country  so  well,  and  that  so  readily 
amalgamated  themselves  with  the  Ameri 
can  ideas  that  seemed  most  adverse  to  them, 
may  have  been  derived  from,  or  fostered 
and  kept  alive  by,  the  great  English  moral 
ist.  Never  was  a  descriptive  epithet  more 
nicely  appropriate  than  that!  Dr.  John 
son's  morality  was  as  English  an  article  as 
a  beefsteak. 


204  OUR  OLD  HOME 

The  city  of  Lichfield  (only  the  cathedral 
towns  are  called  cities  in  England)  stands 
on  an  ascending  site.  It  has  not  so  many 
old  gabled  houses  as  Coventry,  for  example, 
but  still  enough  to  gratify  an  American 
appetite  for  the  antiquities  of  domestic 
architecture.  The  people,  too,  have  an  old- 
fashioned  way  with  them,  and  stare  at  the 
passing  visitor,  as  if  the  railway  had  not 
yet  quite  accustomed  them  to  the  novelty 
of  strange  faces  moving  along  their  ancient 
sidewalks.  The  old  women  whom  I  met, 
in  several  instances,  dropt  me  a  courtesy  ; 
and  as  they  were  of  decent  and  comfortable 
exterior,  and  kept  quietly  on  their  way 
without  pause  or  further  greeting,  it  cer 
tainly  was  not  allowable  to  interpret  their 
little  act  of  respect  as  a  modest  method 
of  asking  for  sixpence  ;  so  that  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  considering  it  a  remnant  of  the 
reverential  and  hospitable  manners  of  elder 
times,  when  the  rare  presence  of  a  stranger 
might  be  deemed  worth  a  general  acknow 
ledgment.  Positively,  coming  from  such 
humble  sources,  I  took  it  all  the  more  as  a 
welcome  on  behalf  of  the  inhabitants,  and 
would  not  have  exchanged  it  for  an  invita 
tion  from  the  mayor  and  magistrates  to  a 
public  dinner.  Yet  I  wish,  merely  for  the 


LICHFIELD  AND   UTTOXETER       205 

experiment's  sake,  that  I  could  have  em 
boldened  myself  to  hold  out  the  aforesaid 
sixpence  to  at  least  one  of  the  old  ladies. 

In  my  wanderings  about  town,  I  came  to 
an  artificial  piece  of  water,  called  the  Min 
ster  Pool.  It  fills  the  immense  cavity  in  a 
ledge  of  rock,  whence  the  building  materials 
of  the  cathedral  were  quarried  out  a  great 
many  centuries  ago.  I  should  never  have 
guessed  the  little  lake  to  be  of  man's  crea 
tion,  so  very  pretty  and  quietly  picturesque 
an  object  has  it  grown  to  be,  with  its  green 
banks,  and  the  old  trees  hanging  over  its 
glassy  surface,  in  which  you  may  see  re 
flected  some  of  the  battlements  of  the 
majestic  structure  that  once  lay  here  in 
unshaped  stone.  Some  little  children  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  pool,  angling  with  pin- 
hooks  ;  and  the  scene  reminded  me  (though 
really,  to  be  quite  fair  with  the  reader,  the 
gist  of  the  analogy  has  now  escaped  me)  of 
that  mysterious  lake  in  the  Arabian  Nights, 
which  had  once  been  a  palace  and  a  city, 
and  where  a  fisherman  used  to  pull  out  the 
former  inhabitants  in  the  guise  of  enchant 
ed  fishes.  There  is  no  need  of  fanciful 
associations  to  make  the  spot  interesting. 
It  was  in  the  porch  of  one  of  the  houses, 
in  the  street  that  runs  beside  the  Minster 


206  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Pool,  that  Lord  Brooke  was  slain,  in  the 
time  of  the  Parliamentary  war,  by  a  shot 
from  the  battlements  of  the  cathedral, 
which  was  then  held  by  the  Royalists  as  a 
fortress.  The  incident  is  commemorated 
by  an  inscription  on  a  stone,  inlaid  into  the 
wall  of  the  house. 

I  know  not  what  rank  the  Cathedral  of 
Lichfield  holds  among  its  sister  edifices  in 
England,  as  a  piece  of  magnificent  archi 
tecture.  Except  that  of  Chester  (the  grim 
and  simple  nave  of  which  stands  yet  unri 
valed  in  my  memory),  and  one  or  two 
small  ones  in  North  Wales,  hardly  worthy 
of  the  name  of  cathedrals,  it  was  the  first 
that  I  had  seen.  To  my  uninstructed  vision, 
it  seemed  the  object  best  worth  gazing  at 
in  the  whole  world ;  and  now,  after  behold 
ing  a  great  many  more,  I  remember  it  with 
less  prodigal  admiration  only  because  others 
are  as  magnificent  as  itself.  The  traces  re 
maining  in  my  memory  represent  it  as  airy 
rather  than  massive.  A  multitude  of  beau 
tiful  shapes  appeared  to  be  comprehended 
within  its  single  outline ;  it  was  a  kind  of 
kaleidoscopic  mystery,  so  rich  a  variety  of 
aspects  did  it  assume  from  each  altered 
point  of  view,  through  the  presentation  of 
a  different  face,  and  the  rearrangement  of 


LICHFIELD  CATHEDRAL 


LICHFIELD  AND   UTTOXETER       2O/ 

its  peaks  and  pinnacles  and  the  three  battle- 
mented  towers,  with  the  spires  that  shot 
heavenward  from  all  three,  but  one  loftier 
than  its  fellows.  Thus  it  impressed  you, 
at  every  change,  as  a  newly  created  struc 
ture  of  the  passing  moment,  in  which  yet 
you  lovingly  recognized  the  half-vanished 
structure  of  the  instant  before,  and  felt, 
moreover,  a  joyful  faith  in  the  indestructible 
existence  of  all  this  cloudlike  vicissitude. 
A  Gothic  cathedral  is  surely  the  most  won 
derful  work  which  mortal  man  has  yet 
achieved,  so  vast,  so  intricate,  and  so  pro 
foundly  simple,  with  such  strange,  delight 
ful  recesses  in  its  grand  figure,  so  difficult 
to  comprehend  within  one  idea,  and  yet  all 
so  consonant  that  it  ultimately  draws  the 
beholder  and  his  universe  into  its  harmony. 
It  is  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  is 
vast  enough  and  rich  enough. 

Not  that  I  felt,  or  was  worthy  to  feel,  an 
unmingled  enjoyment  in  gazing  at  this 
wonder.  I  could  not  elevate  myself  to  its 
spiritual  height,  any  more  than  I  could  have 
climbed  from  the  ground  to  the  summit  of 
one  of  its  pinnacles.  Ascending  but  a 
little  way,  I  continually  fell  back  and  lay  in 
a  kind  of  despair,  conscious  that  a  flood  of 
uncomprehended  beauty  was  pouring  down 


208  OUR   OLD  HOME 

upon  me,  of  which  I  could  appropriate  only 
the  minutest  portion.  After  a  hundred 
years,  incalculably  as  my  higher  sympathies 
might  be  invigorated  by  so  divine  an  em 
ployment,  I  should  still  be  a  gazer  from 
below  and  at  an  awful  distance,  as  yet  re 
motely  excluded  from  the  interior  mystery. 
But  it  was  something  gained,  even  to  have 
that  painful  sense  of  my  own  limitations, 
and  that  half-smothered  yearning  to  soar 
beyond  them.  The  cathedral  showed  me 
how  earthly  I  was,  but  yet  whispered  deeply 
of  immortality.  After  all,  this  was  prob 
ably  the  best  lesson  that  it  could  bestow, 
and,  taking  it  as  thoroughly  as  possible 
home  to  my  heart,  I  was  fain  to  be  content. 
If  the  truth  must  be  told,  my  ill-trained 
enthusiasm  soon  flagged,  and  I  began  to 
lose  the  vision  of  a  spiritual  or  ideal  edifice 
behind  the  time-worn  and  weather-stained 
front  of  the  actual  structure.  Whenever 
that  is  the  case,  it  is  most  reverential  to 
look  another  way  ;  but  the  mood  disposes 
one  to  minute  investigation,  and  I  took 
advantage  of  it  to  examine  the  intricate 
and  multitudinous  adornment  that  was  lav 
ished  on  the  exterior  wall  of  this  great 
church.  Everywhere,  there  were  empty 
niches  where  statues  had  been  thrown 


LICHFTELD  AND    UTTOXETER       20Q 

down,  and  here  and  there  a  statue  still 
lingered  in  its  niche  ;  and  over  the  chief 
entrance,  and  extending  across  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  building,  was  a  row  of  an 
gels,  sainted  personages,  martyrs,  and  kings, 
sculptured  in  reddish  stone.  Being  much 
corroded  by  the  moist  English  atmosphere, 
during  four  or  five  hundred  winters  that 
they  had  stood  there,  these  benign  and 
majestic  figures  perversely  put  me  in  mind 
of  the  appearance  of  a  sugar  image,  after  a 
child  has  been  holding  it  in  his  mouth. 
The  venerable  infant  Time  has  evidently 
found  them  sweet  morsels. 

Inside  of  the  minster  there  is  a  long  and 
lofty  nave,  transepts  of  the  same  height, 
and  side-aisles  and  chapels,  dim  nooks  of 
holiness,  where  in  Catholic  times  the  lamps 
were  continually  burning  before  the  richly 
decorated  shrines  of  saints.  In  the  auda 
city  of  my  ignorance,  as  I  humbly  acknow 
ledge  it  to  have  been,  I  criticised  this  great 
interior  as  too  much  broken  into  compart 
ments,  and  shorn  of  half  its  rightful  impres- 
siveness  by  the  interposition  of  a  screen 
betwixt  the  nave  and  chancel.  It  did  not 
spread  itself  in  breadth,  but  ascended  to 
the  roof  in  lofty  narrowness.  One  large 
body  of  worshipers  might  have  knelt  down 


210  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  the  nave,  others  in  each  of  the  transepts, 
and  smaller  ones  in  the  side-aisles,  besides 
an  indefinite  number  of  esoteric  enthusiasts 
in  the  mysterious  sanctities  beyond  the 
screen.  Thus  it  seemed  to  typify  the  ex- 
clusiveness  of  sects,  rather  than  the  world 
wide  hospitality  of  genuine  religion.  I  had 
imagined  a  cathedral  with  a  scope  more 
vast.  These  Gothic  aisles,  with  their 
groined  arches  overhead,  supported  by 
clustered  pillars  in  long  vistas  up  and  down, 
were  venerable  and  magnificent,  but  in 
cluded  too  much  of  the  twilight  of  that 
monkish  gloom  out  of  which  they  grew. 
It  is  no  matter  whether  I  ever  came  to  a 
more  satisfactory  appreciation  of  this  kind 
of  architecture  ;  the  only  value  of  my  stric 
tures  being  to  show  the  folly  of  looking  at 
noble  objects  in  the  wrong  mood,  and  the 
absurdity  of  a  new  visitant  pretending  to 
hold  any  opinion  whatever  on  such  subjects, 
instead  of  surrendering  himself  to  the  old 
builder's  influence  with  childlike  simplicity. 
A  great  deal  of  white  marble  decorates 
the  old  stonework  of  the  aisles,  in  the 
shape  of  altars,  obelisks,  sarcophagi,  and 
busts.  Most  of  these  memorials  are  com 
memorative  of  people  locally  distinguished, 
especially  the  deans  and  canons  of  the 


LICHFIELD  AND    UTTOXETER       211 

cathedral,  with  their  relatives  and  families; 
and  I  found  but  two  monuments  of  person 
ages  whom  I  had  ever  heard  of,  —  one  be 
ing  Gilbert  Walmesley  and  the  other  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  a  literary  acquain 
tance  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  really  pleas 
ant  to  meet  her  there ;  for  after  a  friend 
has  lain  in  the  grave  far  into  the  second 
century,  she  would  be  unreasonable  to  re 
quire  any  melancholy  emotions  in  a  chance 
interview  at  her  tombstone.  It  adds  a 
rich  charm  to  sacred  edifices,  this  time- 
honored  custom  of  burial  in  churches,  after 
a  few  years,  at  least,  when  the  mortal  re 
mains  have  turned  to  dust  beneath  the 
pavement,  and  the  quaint  devices  and  in 
scriptions  still  speak  to  you  above.  The 
statues,  that  stood  or  reclined  in  several 
recesses  of  the  cathedral,  had  a  kind  of 
life,  and  I  regarded  them  with  an  odd  sort 
of  deference,  as  if  they  were  privileged 
denizens  of  the  precinct.  It  was  singular, 
too,  how  the  memorial  of  the  latest  buried 
person,  the  man  whose  features  were  famil 
iar  in  the  streets  of  Lichfield  only  yes 
terday,  seemed  precisely  as  much  at 
home  here  as  his  mediaeval  predecessors. 
Henceforward  he  belonged  to  the  cathe 
dral  like  one  of  its  original  pillars.  Me- 


212  OUR   OLD  HOME 

thought  this  impression  in  my  fancy  might 
be  the  shadow  of  a  spiritual  fact.  The 
dying  melt  into  the  great  multitude  of  the 
Departed  as  quietly  as  a  drop  of  water  into 
the  ocean,  and,  it  may  be,  are  conscious  of 
no  unfamiliarity  with  their  new  circum 
stances,  but  immediately  become  aware  of 
an  insufferable  strangeness  in  the  world 
which  they  have  quitted.  Death  has  not 
taken  them  away,  but  brought  them  home. 
The  vicissitudes  and  mischances  of  sub 
lunary  affairs,  however,  have  not  ceased  to 
attend  upon  these  marble  inhabitants  ;  for 
I  saw  the  upper  fragment  of  a  sculptured 
lady,  in  a  very  old  -  fashioned  garb,  the 
lower  half  of  whom  had  doubtless  been  de 
molished  by  Cromwell's  soldiers  when  they 
took  the  minster  by  storm.  And  there 
lies  the  remnant  of  this  devout  lady  on  her 
slab,  ever  since  the  outrage,  as  for  cen 
turies  before,  with  a  countenance  of  divine 
serenity,  and  her  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 
symbolizing  a  depth  of  religious  faith  which 
no  earthly  turmoil  or  calamity  could  dis 
turb.  Another  piece  of  sculpture  (appar 
ently  a  favorite  subject  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
for  I  have  seen  several  like  it  in  other 
cathedrals)  was  a  reclining  skeleton,  as 
faithfully  representing  an  open  -  work  of 


LICHFIELD  AND    UTTOXETER       21$ 

bones  as  could  well  be  expected  in  a  solid 
block  of  marble,  and  at  a  period,  moreover, 
when  the  mysteries  of  the  human  frame 
were  rather  to  be  guessed  at  than  re 
vealed.  Whatever  the  anatomical  defects 
of  his  production,  the  old  sculptor  had 
succeeded  in  making  it  ghastly  beyond 
measure.  How  much  mischief  has  been 
wrought  upon  us  by  this  invariable  gloom 
of  the  Gothic  imagination  ;  flinging  itself 
like  a  death-scented  pall  over  our  concep 
tions  of  the  future  state,  smothering  our 
hopes,  hiding  our  sky,  and  inducing  dismal 
efforts  to  raise  the  harvest  of  immortality 
out  of  what  is  most  opposite  to  it,  —  the 
grave  ! 

The  cathedral  service  is  performed  twice 
every  day  :  at  ten  o'clock  and  at  four. 
When  I  first  entered,  the  choristers  (young 
and  old,  but  mostly,  I  think,  boys,  with 
voices  inexpressibly  sweet  and  clear,  and 
as  fresh  as  bird-notes)  were  just  winding 
up  their  harmonious  labors,  and  soon  came 
thronging  through  a  side-door  from  the 
chancel  into  the  nave.  They  were  all 
dressed  in  long  white  robes,  and  looked 
like  a  peculiar  order  of  beings,  created  on 
purpose  to  hover  between  the  roof  and 
pavement  of  that  dim,  consecrated  edifice, 


214  OUR  OLD 

and  illuminate  it  with  divine  melodies, 
reposing  themselves,  meanwhile,  on  the 
heavy  grandeur  of  the  organ  tones  like 
cherubs  on  a  golden  cloud.  All  at  once, 
however,  one  of  the  cherubic  multitude 
pulled  off  his  white  gown,  thus  transform 
ing  himself  before  my  very  eyes  into  a 
commonplace  youth  of  the  day,  in  modern 
frockcoat  and  trousers  of  a  decidedly  pro 
vincial  cut.  This  absurd  little  incident, 
I  verily  believe,  had  a  sinister  effect  in 
putting  me  at  odds  with  the  proper  in 
fluences  of  the  cathedral,  nor  could  I  quite 
recover  a  suitable  frame  of  mind  during 
my  stay  there.  But,  emerging  into  the 
open  air,  I  began  to  be  sensible  that  I  had 
left  a  magnificent  interior  behind  me,  and 
I  have  never  quite  lost  the  perception 
and  enjoyment  of  it  in  these  intervening 
years. 

A  large  space  in  the  immediate  neigh 
borhood  of  the  cathedral  is  called  the  Close, 
and  comprises  beautifully  kept  lawns  and 
a  shadowy  walk  bordered  by  the  dwellings 
of  the  ecclesiastical  dignitaries  of  the  dio 
cese.  All  this  row  of  episcopal,  canonical, 
and  clerical  residences  has  an  air  of  the 
deepest  quiet,  repose,  and  well-protected 
though  not  inaccessible  seclusion.  They 


LICHFIELD  AND    UTTOXETER       21$ 

seemed  capable  of  including  everything 
that  a  saint  could  desire,  and  a  great  many 
more  things  than  most  of  us  sinners  gen 
erally  succeed  in  acquiring.  Their  most 
marked  feature  is  a  dignified  comfort,  look 
ing  as  if  no  disturbance  or  vulgar  intru- 
siveness  could  ever  cross  their  thresholds, 
encroach  upon  their  ornamented  lawns,  or 
straggle  into  the  beautiful  gardens  that 
surround  them  with  flower-beds  and  rich 
clumps  of  shrubbery.  The  episcopal  pal 
ace  is  a  stately  mansion  of  stone,  built 
somewhat  in  the  Italian  style,  and  bearing 
on  its  front  the  figures  1687,  as  the  date 
of  its  erection.  A  large  edifice  of  brick, 
which,  if  I  remember,  stood  next  to  the 
palace,  I  took  to  be  the  residence  of  the 
second  dignitary  of  the  cathedral ;  and,  in 
that  case,  it  must  have  been  the  youthful 
home  of  Addison,  whose  father  was  Dean 
of  Lichfield.  I  tried  to  fancy  his  figure 
on  the  delightful  walk  that  extends  in 
front  of  those  priestly  abodes,  from  which 
and  the  interior  lawns  it  is  separated  by 
an  open-work  iron  fence,  lined  with  rich 
old  shrubbery,  and  overarched  by  a  min 
ster-aisle  of  venerable  trees.  This  path  is 
haunted  by  the  shades  of  famous  person 
ages  who  have  formerly  trodden  it.  John- 


2l6  OUR   OLD  HOME 

son  must  have  been  familiar  with  it,  both 
as  a  boy  and,  in  his  subsequent  visits  to 
Lichfield,  an  illustrious  old  man.  Miss 
Seward,  connected  with  so  many  literary 
reminiscences,  lived  in  one  of  the  adjacent 
houses.  Tradition  says  that  it  was  a  fa 
vorite  spot  of  Major  Andre,  who  used  to 
pace  to  and  fro  under  these  trees,  waiting, 
perhaps,  to  catch  a  last  angel-glimpse  of 
Honoria  Sneyd,  before  he  crossed  the 
ocean  to  encounter  his  dismal  doom  from 
an  American  court-martial.  David  Garrick, 
no  doubt,  scampered  along  the  path  in  his 
boyish  days,  and,  if  he  was  an  early  stu 
dent  of  the  drama,  must  often  have  thought 
of  those  two  airy  characters  of  the  "  Beaux' 
Stratagem,"  Archer  and  Aimwell,  who,  on 
this  very  ground,  after  attending  service  at 
the  cathedral,  contrive  to  make  acquain 
tance  with  the  ladies  of  the  comedy.  These 
creatures  of  mere  fiction  have  as  positive 
a  substance  now  as  the  sturdy  old  figure  of 
Johnson  himself.  They  live,  while  reali 
ties  have  died.  The  shadowy  walk  still 
glistens  with  their  gold  -embroidered  mem 
ories. 

Seeking  for  Johnson's  birthplace,  I  found 
it  in  St.  Mary's  Square,  which  is  not  so 
much  a  square  as  the  mere  widening  of  a 


LICHFIELD  AND    UTTOXETER     21? 

street.  The  house  is  tall  and  thin,  of  three 
stories,  with  a  square  front  and  a  roof  ris 
ing  steep  and  high.  On  a  side-view,  the 
building  looks  as  if  it  had  been  cut  in  two 
in  the  midst,  there  being  no  slope  of  the 
roof  on  that  side.  A  ladder  slanted  against 
the  wall,  and  a  painter  was  giving  a  livelier 
hue  to  the  plaster.  In  a  corner  room  of 
the  basement,  where  old  Michael  Johnson 
may  be  supposed  to  have  sold  books,  is 
now  what  we  should  call  a  dry-goods  store, 
or,  according  to  the  English  phrase,  a 
mercer's  and  haberdasher's  shop.  The 
house  has  a  private  entrance  on  a  cross- 
street,  the  door  being  accessible  by  several 
much-worn  stone  steps,  which  are  bordered 
by  an  iron  balustrade.  I  set  my  foot  on 
the  steps  and  laid  my  hand  on  the  balus 
trade,  where  Johnson's  hand  and  foot  must 
many  a  time  have  been,  and  ascending 
to  the  door,  I  knocked  once,  and  again, 
and  again,  and  got  no  admittance.  Going 
round  to  the  shop-entrance,  I  tried  to  open 
it,  but  found  it  as  fast  bolted  as  the  gate 
of  Paradise.  It  is  mortifying  to  be  so 
balked  in  one's  little  enthusiasms  ;  but 
looking  round  in  quest  of  somebody  to 
make  inquiries  of,  I  was  a  good  deal  con 
soled  by  the  sight  of  Dr.  Johnson  himself, 


2l8  OUR   OLD  HOME 

who  happened,  just  at  that  moment,  to  be 
sitting  at  his  ease  nearly  in  the  middle  of 
St.  Mary's  Square,  with  his  face  turned 
towards  his  father's  house. 

Of  course,  it  being  almost  fourscore 
years  since  the  Doctor  laid  aside  his  weary 
bulk  of  flesh,  together  with  the  ponderous 
melancholy  that  had  so  long  weighed  him 
down,  the  intelligent  reader  will  at  once 
comprehend  that  he  was  marble  in  his  sub 
stance,  and  seated  in  a  marble  chair,  on 
an  elevated  stone  pedestal.  In  short,  it 
was  a  statue,  sculptured  by  Lucas,  and 
placed  here  in  1838,  at  the  expense  of 
Dr.  Law,  the  reverend  chancellor  of  the 
diocese. 

The  figure  is  colossal  (though  perhaps 
not  much  more  so  than  the  mountainous 
Doctor  himself),  and  looks  down  upon  the 
spectator  from  its  pedestal  of  ten  or  twelve 
feet  high,  with  a  broad  and  heavy  benignity 
of  aspect,  very  like  in  feature  to  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds's  portrait  of  Johnson,  but  calmer 
and  sweeter  in  expression.  Several  big 
books  are  piled  up  beneath  his  chair,  and, 
if  I  mistake  not,  he  holds  a  volume  in  his 
hand,  thus  blinking  forth  at  the  world  out 
of  his  learned  abstraction,  owl-like,  yet  be 
nevolent  at  heart.  The  statue  is  immensely 


DR.    SAMUEL   JOHNSON 


LICHFIELD   AND    UTTOXETER      219 

massive,  a  vast  ponderosity  of  stone,  not 
finely  spiritualized,  nor,  indeed,  fully  human 
ized,  but  rather  resembling  a  great  stone 
bowlder  than  a  man.  You  must  look  with 
the  eyes  of  faith  and  sympathy,  or,  possibly, 
you  might  lose  the  human  being  altogether, 
and  find  only  a  big  stone  within  your  men 
tal  grasp.1  On  the  pedestal  are  three  bas- 
reliefs.  In  the  first,  Johnson  is  represented 
as  hardly  more  than  a  baby,  bestriding  an 
old  man's  shoulders,  resting  his  chin  on  the 
bald  head,  which  he  embraces  with  his 
little  arms,  and  listening  earnestly  to  the 
High-Church  eloquence  of  Dr.  Sacheverell. 
In  the  second  tablet,  he  is  seen  riding  to 
school  on  the  shoulders  of  two  of  his  com 
rades,  while  another  boy  supports  him  in 
the  rear. 

The  third  bas-relief  possesses,  to  my 
mind,  a  great  deal  of  pathos,  to  which  my 
appreciative  faculty  is  probably  the  more 

1  Against  one  of  the  pillars  [in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral] 
stands  a  statue  of  Dr.  Johnson,  —  a  noble  and  thought 
ful  figure,  with  a  development  of  muscle  befitting  an 
athlete.  I  doubt  whether  sculptors  do  not  err  in  point 
of  taste,  by  making  all  their  statues  models  of  physical 
perfection,  instead  of  expressing  by  them  the  individual 
character  and  habits  of  the  man.  The  statue  in  the 
market-place  at  Lichfield  has  more  of  the  homely  truth 
of  Johnson's  actual  personality  than  this.  —  II.  117. 


220  OUR   OLD  HOME 

alive,  because  I  have  always  been  pro 
foundly  impressed  by  the  incident  here 
commemorated,  and  long  ago  tried  to  tell 
it  for  the  behoof  of  childish  readers.  It 
shows  Johnson  in  the  market-place  of  Ut- 
toxeter,  doing  penance  for  an  act  of  diso 
bedience  to  his  father,  committed  fifty 
years  before.  He  stands  bareheaded,  a 
venerable  figure,  and  a  countenance  ex 
tremely  sad  and  woe-begone,  with  the  wind 
and  rain  driving  hard  against  him,  and  thus 
helping  to  suggest  to  the  spectator  the 
gloom  of  his  inward  state.  Some  market- 
people  and  children  gaze  awe-stricken  into 
his  face,  and  an  aged  man  and  woman,  with 
clasped  and  uplifted  hands,  seem  to  be  pray 
ing  for  him.  These  latter  personages 
(whose  introduction  by  the  artist  is  none 
the  less  effective,  because,  in  queer  prox 
imity,  there  are  some  commodities  of 
market-day  in  the  shape  of  living  ducks 
and  dead  poultry)  I  interpreted  to  represent 
the  spirits  of  Johnson's  father  and  mother, 
lending  what  aid  they  could  to  lighten  his 
half-century's  burden  of  remorse. 

I  had  never  heard  of  the  above-described 
piece  of  sculpture  before ;  it  appears  to 
have  no  reputation  as  a  work  of  art,  nor 
am  I  at  all  positive  that  it  deserves  any. 


LICHFIELD  AND  UTTOXETER      221 

For  me,  however,  it  did  as  much  as  sculpture 
could,  under  the  circumstances,  even  if  the 
artist  of  the  Libyan  Sibyl  had  wrought  it, 
by  reviving  my  interest  in  the  sturdy  old 
Englishman,  and  particularly  by  freshening 
my  perception  of  a  wonderful  beauty  and 
pathetic  tenderness  in  the  incident  of  the 
penance.  So,  the  next  day,  I  left  Lichfield 
for  Uttoxeter,  on  one  of  the  few  purely 
sentimental  pilgrimages  that  I  ever  under 
took,  to  see  the  very  spot  where  Johnson 
had  stood.  Boswell,  I  think,  speaks  of  the 
town  (its  name  is  pronounced  Yuteoxeter) 
as  being  about  nine  miles  off  from  Lich 
field,  but  the  county  map  would  indicate  a 
greater  distance  ;  and  by  rail,  passing  from 
one  line  to  another,  it  is  as  much  as  eighteen 
miles.  I  have  always  had  an  idea  of  old 
Michael  Johnson  sending  his  literary  mer 
chandise  by  carrier's  wagon,  journeying  to 
Uttoxeter  afoot  on  market-day  morning, 
selling  books  through  the  busy  hours,  and 
returning  to  Lichfield  at  night.  This 
could  not  possibly  have  been  the  case. 

Arriving  at  the  Uttoxeter  station,  the 
first  objects  that  I  saw,  with  a  green  field 
or  two  between  them  and  me,  were  the 
tower  and  gray  steeple  of  a  church,  rising 
among  red-tiled  roofs  and  a  few  scattered 


222  OUR   OLD   HOME 

trees.  A  very  short  walk  takes  you  from 
the  station  up  into  the  town.  It  had  been 
my  previous  impression  that  the  market 
place  of  Uttoxeter  lay  immediately  round 
about  the  church  ;  and,  if  I  remember  the 
narrative  aright,  Johnson,  or  Boswell  in  his 
behalf,  describes  his  father's  book-stall  as 
standing  in  the  market-place,  close  beside 
the  sacred  edifice.  It  is  impossible  for  me 
to  say  what  changes  may  have  occurred  in 
the  topography  of  the  town,  during  almost 
a  century  and  a  half  since  Michael  Johnson 
retired  from  business,  and  ninety  years, 
at  least,  since  his  son's  penance  was  per 
formed.  But  the  church  has  now  merely 
a  street  of  ordinary  width  passing  around 
it,  while  the  market-place,  though  near  at 
hand,  neither  forms  a  part  of  it  nor  is  really 
contiguous,  nor  would  its  throng  and  bustle 
be  apt  to  overflow  their  boundaries  and 
surge  against  the  churchyard  and  the  old 
gray  tower.  Nevertheless,  a  walk  of  a 
minute  or  two  brings  a  person  from  the 
centre  of  the  market-place  to  the  church 
door ;  and  Michael  Johnson  might  very 
conveniently  have  located  his  stall  and  laid 
out  his  literary  ware  in  the  corner  at  the 
tower's  base  ;  better  there,  indeed,  than  in 
the  busy  centre  of  an  agricultural  market. 


LI CH FIELD  AND   UTTOXETER      22 3 

But  the  picturesque  arrangement  and  full 
impressiveness  of  the  story  absolutely  re 
quire  that  Johnson  shall  not  have  done  his 
penance  in  a  corner,  ever  so  little  retired, 
but  shall  have  been  the  very  nucleus  of  the 
crowd, — the  midmost  man  of  the  market 
place,  —  a  central  image  of  Memory  and 
Remorse,  contrasting  with  and  overpower 
ing  the  petty  materialism  around  him.  He 
himself,  having  the  force  to  throw  vitality 
and  truth  into  what  persons  differently 
constituted  might  reckon  a  mere  external 
ceremony,  and  an  absurd  one,  could  not 
have  failed  to  see  this  necessity.  I  am  re 
solved,  therefore,  that  the  true  site  of  Dr. 
Johnson's  penance  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  market-place. 

That  important  portion  of  the  town  is 
a  rather  spacious  and  irregularly  shaped 
vacuity,  surrounded  by  houses  and  shops, 
some  of  them  old,  with  red-tiled  roofs,  others 
wearing  a  pretense  of  newness,  but  prob 
ably  as  old  in  their  inner  substance  as  the 
rest.  The  people  of  Uttoxeter  seemed 
very  idle  in  the  warm  summer-day,  and  were 
scattered  in  little  groups  along  the  side 
walks,  leisurely  chatting  with  one  another, 
and  often  turning  about  to  take  a  deliberate 
stare  at  my  humble  self ;  insomuch  that  I 


224  OUR   OLD  HOME 

felt  as  if  my  genuine  sympathy  for  the  il 
lustrious  penitent,  and  my  many  reflections 
about  him,  must  have  imbued  me  with  some 
of  his  own  singularity  of  mien.  If  their 
great-grandfathers  were  such  redoubtable 
starers  in  the  Doctor's  day,  his  penance 
was  no  light  one.  This  curiosity  indicates 
a  paucity  of  visitors  to  the  little  town,  ex 
cept  for  market  purposes,  and  I  question  if 
Uttoxeter  ever  saw  an  American  before. 
The  only  other  thing  that  greatly  impressed 
me  was  the  abundance  of  public-houses,  one 
at  every  step  or  two  :  Red  Lions,  White 
Harts,  Bulls'  Heads,  Mitres,  Cross  Keys, 
and  I  know  not  what  besides.  These  are 
probably  for  the  accommodation  of  the 
farmers  and  peasantry  of  the  neighborhood 
on  market-day,  and  content  themselves  with 
a  very  meagre  business  on  other  days  of 
the  week.  At  any  rate,  I  was  the  only 
guest  in  Uttoxeter  at  the  period  of  my  visit, 
and  had  but  an  infinitesimal  portion  of 
patronage  to  distribute  among  such  a  multi 
tude  of  inns.  The  reader,  however,  will 
possibly  be  scandalized  to  learn  what  was 
the  first,  and,  indeed,  the  only  important 
affair  that  I  attended  to,  after  coming  so 
far  to  indulge  a  solemn  and  high  emotion, 
and  standing  now  on  the  very  spot  where 


LIC H FIELD   AND    UTTOXETER      22$ 

my  pious  errand  should  have  been  consum 
mated.  I  stepped  into  one  of  the  rustic 
hostelries  and  got  my  dinner,  —  bacon  and 
greens,  some  mutton-chops,  juicier  and 
more  delectable  than  all  America  could 
serve  up  at  the  President's  table,  and  a 
gooseberry  pudding ;  a  sufficient  meal  for 
six  yeomen,  and  good  enough  for  a  prince, 
besides  a  pitcher  of  foaming  ale,  the  whole 
at  the  pitiful  small  charge  of  eighteen- 
pence ! 

Dr.  Johnson  would  have  forgiven  me, 
for  nobody  had  a  heartier  faith  in  beef  and 
mutton  than  himself.  And  as  regards  my 
lack  of  sentiment  in  eating  my  dinner,  — 
it  was  the  wisest  thing  I  had  done  that 
day.  A  sensible  man  had  better  not  let 
himself  be  betrayed  into  these  attempts  to 
realize  the  things  which  he  has  dreamed 
about,  and  which,  when  they  cease  to  be 
purely  ideal  in  his  mind,  will  have  lost  the 
truest  of  their  truth,  the  loftiest  and  pro- 
foundest  part  of  their  power  over  his  sym 
pathies.  Facts,  as  we  really  find  them, 
whatever  poetry  they  may  involve,  are  cov 
ered  with  a  stony  excrescence  of  prose, 
resembling  the  crust  on  a  beautiful  sea- 
shell,  and  they  never  show  their  most  del 
icate  and  divinest  colors  until  we  shall 


226  OUR   OLD   HOME 

have  dissolved  away  their  grosser  actuali 
ties  by  steeping  them  long  in  a  powerful 
menstruum  of  thought.  And  seeking  to 
actualize  them  again,  we  do  but  renew  the 
crust.  If  this  were  otherwise,  —  if  the 
moral  sublimity  of  a  great  fact  depended 
in  any  degree  on  its  garb  of  external  cir 
cumstances,  things  which  change  and  de 
cay,  —  it  could  not  itself  be  immortal  and 
ubiquitous,  and  only  a  brief  point  of  time 
and  a  little  neighborhood  would  be  spiritu 
ally  nourished  by  its  grandeur  and  beauty. 
Such  were  a  few  of  the  reflections  which 
I  mingled  with  my  ale,  as  I  remember  to 
have  seen  an  old  quaffer  of  that  excellent 
liquor  stir  up  his  cup  with  a  sprig  of  some 
bitter  and  fragrant  herb.  Meanwhile  I 
found  myself  still  haunted  by  a  desire  to 
get  a  definite  result  out  of  my  visit  to  Ut- 
toxeter.  The  hospitable  inn  was  called  the 
Nag's  Head,  and,  standing  beside  the  mar 
ket-place,  was  as  likely  as  any  other  to 
have  entertained  old  Michael  Johnson  in 
the  days  when  he  used  to  come  hither  to 
sell  books.  He,  perhaps,  had  dined  on 
bacon  and  greens,  and  drunk  his  ale,  and 
smoked  his  pipe,  in  the  very  room  where 
I  now  sat,  which  was  a  low,  ancient  room, 
certainly  much  older  than  Queen  Anne's 


LIC H FIELD  AND    UTTOXETER       22/ 

time,  with  a  red-brick  floor,  and  a  white 
washed  ceiling,  traversed  by  bare,  rough 
beams,  the  whole  in  the  rudest  fashion, 
but  extremely  neat.  Neither  did  it  lack 
ornament,  the  walls  being  hung  with  col 
ored  engravings  of  prize  oxen  and  other 
pretty  prints,  and  the  mantelpiece  adorned 
with  earthenware  figures  of  shepherdesses 
in  the  Arcadian  taste  of  long  ago.  Michael 
Johnson's  eyes  might  have  rested  on  that 
self -same  earthen  image,  to  examine  which 
more  closely  I  had  just  crossed  the  brick 
pavement  of  the  room.  And,  sitting  down 
again,  still  as  I  sipped  my  ale,  I  glanced 
through  the  open  window  into  the  sunny 
market-place,  and  wished  that  I  could  hon 
estly  fix  on  one  spot  rather  than  another, 
as  likely  to  have  been  the  holy  site  where 
Johnson  stood  to  do  his  penance. 

How  strange  and  stupid  it  is  that  tradi 
tion  should  not  have  marked  and  kept  in 
mind  the  very  place  !  How  shameful  (noth 
ing  less  than  that)  that  there  should  be  no 
local  memorial  of  this  incident,  as  beautiful 
and  touching  a  passage  as  can  be  cited  out 
of  any  human  life !  No  inscription  of  it, 
almost  as  sacred  as.  a  verse  of  Scripture  on 
the  wall  of  the  church  !  No  statue  of  the 
venerable  and  illustrious  penitent  in  the 


228  OUR   OLD  HOME 

market-place  to  throw  a  wholesome  awe 
over  its  earthliness,  its  frauds  and  petty 
wrongs,  of  which  the  benumbed  fingers  of 
conscience  can  make  no  record,  its  selfish 
competition  of  each  man  with  his  brother 
or  his  neighbor,  its  traffic  of  soul-substance 
for  a  little  worldly  gain !  Such  a  statue, 
if  the  piety  of  the  people  did  not  raise  it, 
might  almost  have  been  expected  to  grow 
up  out  of  the  pavement  of  its  own  accord 
on  the  spot  that  had  been  watered  by  the 
rain  that  dripped  from  Johnson's  garments, 
mingled  with  his  remorseful  tears. 

Long  after  my  visit  to  Uttoxeter,  I  was 
told  that  there  were  individuals  in  the 
town  who  could  have  shown  me  the  exact, 
indubitable  spot  where  Johnson  performed 
his  penance.  I  was  assured,  moreover, 
that  sufficient  interest  wras  felt  in  the  sub 
ject  to  have  induced  certain  local  discus 
sions  as  to  the  expediency  of  erecting  a 
memorial.1  With  all  deference  to  my 

1  While  I  was  sitting  in  the  central  saloon  [at  the 
Manchester  Art  Exhibition],  listening  to  the  music,  a 
young  man  accosted  me,  presuming  that  I  was  so-and- 
so,  the  American  author.  He  himself  was  a  traveler 
for  a  publishing  firm  ;  and  he  introduced  conversation 
by  talking  of  Uttoxeter,  and  my  description  of  it  in 
an  annual.  He  said  that  the  account  had  caused  a 
good  deal  of  pique  among  the  good  people  of  Ut- 


LIC H FIELD  AND   UTTOXETER      2 29 

polite  informant,  I  surmise  that  there  is  a 
mistake,  and  decline,  without  further  and 
precise  evidence,  giving  credit  to  either 
of  the  above  statements.  The  inhabitants 
know  nothing,  as  a  matter  of  general  in 
terest,  about  the  penance,  and  care  noth 
ing  for  the  scene  of  it.  If  the  clergyman 
of  the  parish,  for  example,  had  ever  heard 
of  it,  would  he  not  have  used  the  theme 
time  and  again,  wherewith  to  work  ten 
derly  and  profoundly  on  the  souls  com 
mitted  to  his  charge  ?  If  parents  were 
familiar  with  it,  would  they  not  teach  it  to 
their  young  ones  at  the  fireside,  both  to 
insure  reverence  to  their  own  gray  hairs, 
and  to  protect  the  children  from  such  un 
availing  regrets  as  Johnson  bore  upon  his 
heart  for  fifty  years  ?  If  the  site  were  as 
certained,  would  not  the  pavement  there 
abouts  be  worn  with  reverential  footsteps  ? 
Would  not  every  town-born  child  be  able 

toxeter,  because  of  the  ignorance  which  I  attribute  to 
them  as  to  the  circumstance  which  connects  Johnson 
with  their  town.  The  spot  where  Johnson  stood  can, 
it  appears,  still  be  pointed  out.  It  is  on  one  side  of 
the  market-place,  and  not  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
church.  I  forget  whether  I  recorded,  at  the  time,  that 
an  Uttoxeter  newspaper  was  sent  me,  containing  a  pro 
posal  that  a  statue  or  memorial  should  be  erected  on 
the  spot.  It  would  gratify  me  exceedingly  if  such  a 
result  should  come  from  my  pious  pilgrimage  thither. 

-  n.  532. 


230  OUR   OLD   HOME 

to  direct  the  pilgrim  thither  ?  While  wait 
ing  at  the  station,  before  my  departure,  I 
asked  a  boy  who  stood  near  me,  —  an  in 
telligent  and  gentlemanly  lad  twelve  or 
thirteen  years  old,  whom  I  should  take  to 
be  a  clergyman's  son,  —  I  asked  him  if  he 
had  ever  heard  the  story  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
how  he  stood  an  hour  doing  penance  near 
that  church,  the  spire  of  which  rose  before 
us.  The  boy  stared  and  answered,  — 

"No!" 

"  Were  you  born  in  Uttoxeter  ?  " 

"Yes." 

I  inquired  if  no  circumstance  such  as  I 
had  mentioned  was  known  or  talked  about 
among  the  inhabitants. 

"  No,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  not  that  I  ever 
heard  of." 

Just  think  of  the  absurd  little  town, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  only  memorable 
incident  which  ever  happened  within  its 
boundaries  since  the  old  Britons  built  it, 
this  sad  and  lovely  story,  which  conse 
crates  the  spot  (for  I  found  it  holy  to  my 
contemplation,  again,  as  soon  as  it  lay  be 
hind  me)  in  the  heart  of  a  stranger  from 
three  thousand  miles  over  the  sea  !  It  but 
confirms  what  I  have  been  saying,  that 
sublime  and  beautiful  facts  are  best  un 
derstood  when  etherealized  by  distance. 


VI. 

PILGRIMAGE   TO   OLD   BOSTON 

WE  set  out  at  a  little  past  eleven,  and 
made  our  first  stage  to  Manchester.  We 
were  by  this  time  sufficiently  Anglicized 
to  reckon  the  morning  a  bright  and  sunny 
one ;  although  the  May  sunshine  was 
mingled  with  water,  as  it  were,  and  distem 
pered  with  a  very  bitter  east  wind. 

Lancashire  is  a  dreary  county  (all,  at 
least,  except  its  hilly  portions),  and  I  have 
never  passed  through  it  without  wishing 
myself  anywhere  but  in  that  particular  spot 
where  I  then  happened  to  be.  A  few 
places  along  our  route  were  historically 
interesting  ;  as,  for  example,  Bolton,  which 
was  the  scene  of  many  remarkable  events  in 
the  Parliamentary  War,  and  in  the  market- 
square  of  which  one  of  the  Earls  of  Derby 
was  beheaded.  We  saw,  along  the  wayside, 
the  never-failing  green  fields,  hedges,  and 
other  monotonous  features  of  an  ordinary 
English  landscape.  There  were  little  fac 
tory  villages,  too,  or  larger  towns,  with  their 


232  OUR    OLD   HOME 

tall  chimneys,  and  their  pennons  of  black 
smoke,  their  ugliness  of  brick-work,  and 
their  heaps  of  refuse  matter  from  the  fur 
nace,  which  seems  to  be  the  only  kind  of 
stuff  which  Nature  cannot  take  back  to 
herself  and  resolve  into  the  elements,  when 
man  has  thrown  it  aside.  These  hillocks 
of  waste  and  effete  mineral  always  disfigure 
the  neighborhood  of  ironmongering  towns, 
and,  even  after  a  considerable  antiquity,  are 
hardly  made  decent  with  a  little  grass. 

At  a  quarter  to  two  we  left  Manchester 
by  the  Sheffield  and  Lincoln  Railway 
The  scenery  grew  rather  better  than  that 
through  which  we  had  hitherto  passed, 
though  still  by  no  means  very  striking  ; 
for  (except  in  the  show-districts,  such  as 
the  Lake  country,  or  Derbyshire)  English 
scenery  is  not  particularly  well  worth  look 
ing  at,  considered  as  a  spectacle  or  a  pic 
ture.  It  has  a  real,  homely  charm  of  its 
own,  no  doubt ;  and  the  rich  verdure,  and 
the  thorough  finish  added  by  human  art, 
are  perhaps  as  attractive  to  an  American 
eye  as  any  stronger  feature  could  be.  Our 
journey,  however,  between  Manchester  and 
Sheffield  was  not  through  a  rich  tract  of 
country,  but  along  a  valley  walled  in  by 
bleak,  ridgy  hills  extending  straight  as  a 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      233 

rampart,  and  across  black  moorlands  with 
here  and  there  a  plantation  of  trees.  Some 
times  there  were  long  and  gradual  ascents, 
bleak,  windy,  and  desolate,  conveying  the 
very  impression  which  the  reader  gets  from 
many  passages  of  Miss  Bronte's  novels,  and 
still  more  from  those  of  her  two  sisters. 
Old  stone  or  brick  farmhouses,  and,  once 
in  a  while,  an  old  church-tower,  were  visible ; 
but  these  are  almost  too  common  objects 
to  be  noticed  in  an  English  landscape. 

On  a  railway,  I  suspect,  what  little  we  do 
see  of  the  country  is  seen  quite  amiss,  be 
cause  it  was  never  intended  to  be  looked 
at  from  any  point  of  view  in  that  straight 
line  ;  so  that  it  is  like  looking  at  the  wrong 
side  of  a  piece  of  tapestry.  The  old  high 
ways  and  foot-paths  were  as  natural  as 
brooks  and  rivulets,  and  adapted  themselves 
by  an  inevitable  impulse  to  the  physiog 
nomy  of  the  country  ;  and,  furthermore, 
every  object  within  view  of  them  had  some 
subtile  reference  to  their  curves  and  undu 
lations  ;  but  the  line  of  a  railway  is  perfect 
ly  artificial,  and  puts  all  precedent  things 
at  sixes-and-sevens.  At  any  rate,  be  the 
cause  what  it  may,  there  is  seldom  anything 
worth  seeing  within  the  scope  of  a  railway 
traveler's  eye ;  and  if  there  were,  it  re- 


234  OUR   OLD  HOME 

quires  an  alert  marksman  to  take  a  flying 
shot  at  the  picturesque. 

At  one  of  the  stations  (it  was  near  a  vil 
lage  of  ancient  aspect,  nestling  round  a 
church,  on  a  wide  Yorkshire  moor)  I  saw 
a  tall  old  lady  in  black,  who  seemed  to  have 
just  alighted  from  the  train.  She  caught 
my  attention  by  a  singular  movement  of 
the  head,  not  once  only,  but  continually 
repeated,  and  at  regular  intervals,  as  if  she 
were  making  a  stern  and  solemn  protest 
against  some  action  that  developed  itself 
before  her  eyes,  and  were  foreboding  ter 
rible  disaster,  if  it  should  be  persisted  in. 
Of  course,  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  par 
alytic  or  nervous  affection  ;  yet  one  might 
fancy  that  it  had  its  origin  in  some  un 
speakable  wrong,  perpetrated  half  a  lifetime 
ago  in  this  old  gentlewoman's  presence, 
either  against  herself  or  somebody  whom 
she  loved  still  better.  Her  features  had 
a  wonderful  sternness,  which,  I  presume, 
was  caused  by  her  habitual  effort  to  com 
pose  and  keep  them  quiet,  and  thereby 
counteract  the  tendency  to  paralytic  move 
ment.  The  slow,  regular,  and  inexorable 
character  of  the  motion  —  her  look  of  force 
and  self-control,  which  had  the  appearance 
of  rendering  it  voluntary,  while  yet  it  was 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      235 

so  fateful  —  have  stamped  this  poor  lady's 
face  and  gesture  into  my  memory ;  so  that, 
some  dark  day  or  other,  I  am  afraid  she 
will  reproduce  herself  in  a  dismal  romance. 

The  train  stopped  a  minute  or  two,  to 
allow  the  tickets  to  be  taken,  just  before 
entering  the  Sheffield  station,  and  thence 
I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  famous  town  of  razors 
and  penknives,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  its 
own  diffusing.  My  impressions  of  it  are 
extremely  vague  and  misty,  —  or  rather, 
smoky :  for  Sheffield  seems  to  me  smokier 
than  Manchester,  Liverpool,  or  Birming 
ham,  —  smokier  than  all  England  besides, 
unless  Newcastle  be  the  exception.  It 
might  have  been  Pluto's  own  metropolis, 
shrouded  in  sulphurous  vapor  ;  and,  indeed, 
our  approach  to  it  had  been  by  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  through  a  tunnel 
three  miles  in  length,  quite  traversing  the 
breadth  and  depth  of  a  mountainous  hill. 

After  passing  Sheffield,  the  scenery  be 
came  softer,  gentler,  yet  more  picturesque. 
At  one  point  we  saw  what  I  believe  to  be 
the  utmost  northern  verge  of  Sherwood 
Forest,  —  not  consisting,  however,  of  thou 
sand-year  oaks,  extant  from  Robin  Hood's 
days,  but  of  young  and  thriving  plantations, 
which  will  require  a  century  or  two  of  slow 


236  OUR   OLD  HOME 

English  growth  to  give  them  much  breadth 
of  shade.  Earl  Fitzwilliam's  property  lies 
in  this  neighborhood,  and  probably  his 
castle  was  hidden  among  some  soft  depth 
of  foliage  not  far  off.  Farther  onward  the 
country  grew  quite  level  around  us,  where 
by  I  judged  that  we  must  now  be  in  Lin 
colnshire  ;  and  shortly  after  six  o'clock  we 
caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  cathedral 
towers,  though  they  loomed  scarcely  huge 
enough  for  our  preconceived  idea  of  them. 
But,  as  we  drew  nearer,  the  great  edifice 
began  to  assert  itself,  making  us  acknow 
ledge  it  to  be  larger  than  our  receptivity 
could  take  in. 

At  the  railway-station  we  found  no  cab 
(it  being  an  unknown  vehicle  in  Lincoln), 
but  only  an  omnibus  belonging  to  the 
Saracen's  Head,  which  the  driver  recom 
mended  as  the  best  hotel  in  the  city,  and 
took  us  thither  accordingly.  It  received  us 
hospitably,  and  looked  comfortable  enough  ; 
though,  like  the  hotels  of  most  old  Eng 
lish  towns,  it  had  a  musty  fragrance  of  an 
tiquity,  such  as  I  have  smelt  in  a  seldom- 
opened  London  church  where  the  broad- 
aisle  is  paved  with  tombstones.  The  house 
was  of  an  ancient  fashion,  the  entrance 
into  its  interior  court-yard  being  through 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      237 

an  arch,  in  the  side  of  which  is  the  door  of 
the  hotel.  There  are  long  corridors,  an 
intricate  arrangement  of  passages,  an  up- 
and-down  meandering  of  staircases,  amid 
which  it  would  be  no  marvel  to  encounter 
some  forgotten  guest  who  had  gone  astray 
a  hundred  years  ago,  and  was  still  seeking 
for  his  bedroom  while  the  rest  of  his  gen 
eration  were  in  their  graves.  There  is  no 
exaggerating  the  confusion  of  mind  that 
seizes  upon  a  stranger  in  the  bewildering 
geography  of  a  great  old-fashioned  English 
inn. 

This  hotel  stands  in  the  principal  street 
of  Lincoln,  and  within  a  very  short  dis 
tance  of  one  of  the  ancient  city -gates, 
which  is  arched  across  the  public  way,  with 
a  smaller  arch  for  foot-passengers  on  either 
side  ;  the  whole,  a  gray,  time-gnawn,  pon 
derous,  shadowy  structure,  through  the 
dark  vista  of  which  you  look  into  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  The  street  is  narrow,  and  re 
tains  many  antique  peculiarities  ;  though, 
unquestionably,  English  domestic  architec 
ture  has  lost  its  most  impressive  features, 
in  the  course  of  the  last  century.  In  this 
respect,  there  are  finer  old  towns  than  Lin 
coln  :  Chester,  for  instance,  and  Shrews 
bury,  —  which  last  is  unusually  rich  in 


238  OUR   OLD  HOME 

those  quaint  and  stately  edifices  where  the 
gentry  of  the  shire  used  to  make  their 
winter  abodes,  in  a  provincial  metropolis.1 

1  On  this  account  I  never  knew  such  pleasant  walk 
ing  as  in  old  streets  like  those  of  Shrewsbury.  And 
there  are  passages  opening  under  archways,  and  winding 
up  between  high  edifices,  very  tempting  to  the  explorer, 
and  generally  leading  to  some  court,  or  some  queer  old 
range  of  buildings  or  piece  of  architecture,  which  it 
would  be  the  greatest  pity  to  miss  seeing.  ...  I  have 
seen  no  such  stately  houses,  in  that  style,  as  we  found 
here  in  Shrewsbury.  There  were  no  such  fine  ones  in 
Coventry,  Stratford,  Warwick,  Chester,  nor  anywhere 
else  where  we  have  been.  Their  stately  height  and  spa 
ciousness  seem  to  have  been  owing  to  the  fact  that 
Shrewsbury  was  a  sort  of  metropolis  of  the  country 
round  about,  and  therefore  the  neighboring  gentry  had 
their  town-houses  there,  when  London  was  several  days' 
journey  off,  instead  of  a  very  few  hours  ;  and,  besides,  it 
was  once  much  the  resort  of  kings,  and  the  centre-point 
of  great  schemes  of  war  and  policy.  One  such  house, 
formerly  belonging  to  a  now  extinct  family,  that  of  Ire 
land,  rises  to  the  height  of  four  stories,  and  has  a  front 
consisting  of  what  look  like  four  projecting  towers. 
There  are  ranges  of  embowed  windows,  one  above  an 
other,  to  the  full  height  of  the  house,  and  these  are  sur 
mounted  by  peaked  gables.  The  people  of  those  times 
certainly  did  not  deny  themselves  light ;  and  while  win 
dow-glass  was  an  article  of  no  very  remote  introduction, 
,  it  was  probably  a  point  of  magnificence  and  wealthy  dis 
play  to  have  enough  of  it.  One  whole  side  of  the  room 
must  often  have  been  formed  by  the  window.  This 
Ireland  mansion,  as  well  as  all  the  rest  of  the  old  houses 
in  Shrewsbury,  is  a  timber  house,  —  that  is,  a  skeleton 
of  oak,  filled  up  with  brick,  plaster,  or  other  material, 
and  with  the  beams  of  the  timber  marked  out  with  black 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     239 

Almost  everywhere,  nowadays,  there  is  a 
monotony  of  modern  brick  or  stuccoed 
fronts,  hiding  houses  that  are  older  than 
ever,  but  obliterating  the  picturesque  an 
tiquity  of  the  street. 

Between  seven  and  eight  o'clock  (it  be 
ing  still  broad  daylight  in  these  long  Eng 
lish  days)  we  set  out  to  pay  a  preliminary 
visit  to  the  exterior  of  the  cathedral.  Pass 
ing  through  the  Stone  Bow,  as  the  city- 
gate  close  by  is  called,  we  ascended  a  street 
which  grew  steeper  and  narrower  as  we 
advanced,  till  at  last  it  got  to  be  the  steep 
est  street  I  ever  climbed,  —  so  steep  that 
any  carriage,  if  left  to  itself,  would  rattle 
downward  much  faster  than  it  could  pos 
sibly  be  drawn  up.  Being  almost  the  only 
hill  in  Lincolnshire,  the  inhabitants  seem 
disposed  to  make  the  most  of  it.  The 

paint ;  besides  which,  in  houses  of  any  pretension,  there 
are  generally  trefoils,  and  other  Gothic-looking  orna 
ments,  likewise  painted  black.  They  have  an  indescrib 
able  charm  for  me,  —  the  more,  I  think,  because  they 
are  wooden ;  but,  indeed,  I  cannot  tell  why  it  is  that  I 
like  them  so  well,  and  am  never  tired  of  looking  at 
them.  A  street  was  a  development  of  human  life,  in 
the  days  when  these  houses  were  built,  whereas  a  mod 
ern  street  is  but  the  cold  plan  of  an  architect,  without 
individuality  or  character,  and  without  the  human  emo 
tion  which  a  man  kneads  into  the  walls  which  he  builds 
on  a  scheme  of  his  own.  —  II.  82-84. 


240  OUR   OLD  HOME 

houses  on  each  side  had  no  very  remark 
able  aspect,  except  one  with  a  stone  portal 
and  carved  ornaments,  which  is  now  a 
dwelling-place  for  poverty-stricken  people, 
but  may  have  been  an  aristocratic  abode 
in  the  days  of  the  Norman  kings,  to  whom 
its  style  of  architecture  dates  back.  This 
is  called  the  Jewess's  House,  having  been 
inhabited  by  a  woman  of  that  faith  who 
was  hanged  six  hundred  years  ago. 

And  still  the  street  grew  steeper  and 
steeper.  Certainly,  the  Bishop  and  clergy 
of  Lincoln  ought  not  to  be  fat  men,  but  of 
very  spiritual,  saint-like,  almost  angelic, 
habit,  if  it  be  a  frequent  part  of  their  ec 
clesiastical  duty  to  climb  this  hill ;  for  it  is 
a  real  penance,  and  was  probably  performed 
as  such,  and  groaned  over  accordingly,  in 
monkish  times.  Formerly,  on  the  day  of 
his  installation,  the  Bishop  used  to  ascend 
the  hill  barefoot,  and  was  doubtless  cheered 
and  invigorated  by  looking  upward  to  the 
grandeur  that  was  to  console  him  for  the 
humility  of  his  approach.  We,  likewise, 
were  beckoned  onward  by  glimpses  of  the 
cathedral  towers  ;  and,  finally,  attaining 
an  open  square  on  the  summit,  we  saw  an 
old  Gothic  gateway  to  the  left  hand,  and 
another  to  the  right.  The  latter  had 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      24! 

apparently  been  a  part  of  the  exterior  de 
fenses  of  the  cathedral,  at  a  time  when  the 
edifice  was  fortified.  The  west  front  rose 
behind.  We  passed  through  one  of  the 
side-arches  of  the  Gothic  portal,  and  found 
ourselves  in  the  cathedral  close,  a  wide, 
level  space,  where  the  great  old  minster 
has  fair  room  to  sit,  looking  down  on  the 
ancient  structures  that  surround  it,  all  of 
which,  in  former  days,  were  the  habitations 
of  its  dignitaries  and  officers.  Some  of 
them  are  still  occupied  as  such,  though 
others  are  in  too  neglected  and  dilapidated 
a  state  to  seem  worthy  of  so  splendid 
an  establishment.  Unless  it  be  Salisbury 
Close,  however  (which  is  incomparably  rich 
as  regards  the  old  residences  that  belong 
to  it),  I  remember  no  more  comfortably  pic 
turesque  precincts  round  any  other  cathe 
dral.  But,  in  truth,  almost  every  cathe 
dral  close,  in  turn,  has  seemed  to  me  the 
loveliest,  cosiest,  safest,  least  wind-shaken, 
most  decorous,  and  most  enjoyable  shelter 
that  ever  the  thrift  and  selfishness  of  mor 
tal  man  contrived  for  himself.  How  de 
lightful,  to  combine  all  this  with  the  service 
of  the  temple  ! 1 

1   We    now    walked    around    the    close    [at    Salis 
bury],  which  is  surrounded  by  some  of  the   quaintest 


242  OUR   OLD   HOME 

Lincoln  Cathedral  is  built  of  a  yellowish 
brownstone,  which  appears  either  to  have 
been  largely  restored,  or  else  does  not  as 
sume  the  hoary,  crumbly  surface  that  gives 
such  a  venerable  aspect  to  most  of  the  an 
cient  churches  and  castles  in  England.  In 
many  parts,  the  recent  restorations  are 
quite  evident  ;  but  other,  and  much  the 
larger,  portions  can  scarcely  have  been 
touched  for  centuries  :  for  there  are  still 
the  gargoyles,  perfect,  or  with  broken 
noses,  as  the  case  may  be,  but  showing 

and  comfortablest  ecclesiastical  residences  that  can  be 
imagined.  These  are  the  dwelling-houses  of  the  Dean 
and  the  canons,  and  whatever  other  high  officers  com 
pose  the  Bishop's  staff ;  and  there  was  one  large  brick 
mansion,  old,  but  not  so  ancient  as  the  rest,  which  we 
took  to  be  the  Bishop's  palace.  I  never  beheld  any 
thing  —  I  must  say  again  —  so  cosey,  so  indicative 
•of  domestic  comfort  for  whole  centuries  together,  — 
houses  so  fit  to  live  in  or  to  die  in,  and  where  it 
-would  be  so  pleasant  to  lead  a  young  wife  beneath 
the  antique  portal,  and  dwell  with  her  till  husband  and 
•wife  were  patriarchal,  —  as  these  delectable  old  houses. 
They  belong  naturally  to  the  cathedral,  and  have  a  ne 
cessary  relation  to  it,  and  its  sanctity  is  somehow  thrown 
•over  them  all,  .so  that  they  do  not  quite  belong  to  this 
world,  though  they  look  full  to  overflowing  of  whatever 
•earthly  thangs  are  good  for  man.  These  are  places, 
"however,  in  which  mankind  makes  no  progress ;  the 
rrushing  tumult  of  'human  life  here  subsides  into  a  deep 
quiet  pool,  with  perhaps  a  gentle  circular  eddy,  but  no 
onward  movement. —  II.  299. 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      243 

that  variety  and  fertility  of  grotesque  ex 
travagance  which  no  modern  imitation  can 
effect.  There  are  innumerable  niches,  too, 
up  the  whole  height  of  the  towers,  above 
and  around  the  entrance,  and  all  over  the 
walls  :  most  of  them  empty,  but  a  few 
containing  the  lamentable  remnants  of 
headless  saints  and  angels.  It  is  singular 
what  a  native  animosity  lives  in  the  human 
heart  against  carved  images,  insomuch  that, 
whether  they  represent  Christian  saint  or 
Pagan  deity,  all  unsophisticated  men  seize 
the  first  safe  opportunity  to  knock  off  their 
heads  !  In  spite  of  all  dilapidations,  how 
ever,  the  effect  of  the  west  front  of  the 
cathedral  is  still  exceedingly  rich,  being 
covered  from  massive  base  to  airy  summit 
with  the  minutest  details  of  sculpture  and 
carving  :  at  least,  it  was  so  once  ;  and  even 
now  the  spiritual  impression  of  its  beauty 
remains  so  strong,  that  we  have  to  look 
twice  to  see  that  much  of  it  has  been  ob 
literated.  I  have  seen  a  cherry  -  stone 
carved  all  over  by  a  monk,  so  minutely 
that  it  must  have  cost  him  half  a  lifetime 
of  labor  ;  and  this  cathedral-front  seems  to 
have  been  elaborated  in  a  monkish  spirit, 
like  that  cherry-stone.  Not  that  the  re 
sult  is  in  the  least  petty,  but  miraculously 


244  OUR  OLD 

grand,  and  all  the  more  so  for  the  faithful 
beauty  of  the  smallest  details. 

An  elderly  man,  seeing  us  looking  up  at 
the  west  front,  came  to  the  door  of  an  ad 
jacent  house,  and  called  to  inquire  if  we 
wished  to  go  into  the  cathedral ;  but  as 
there  would  have  been  a  dusky  twilight 
beneath  its  roof,  like  the  antiquity  that 
has  sheltered  itself  within,  we  declined  for 
the  present.  So  we  merely  walked  round 
the  exterior,  and  thought  it  more  beautiful 
than  that  of  York  ;  though,  on  recollection, 
I  hardly  deem  it  so  majestic  and  mighty  as 
that.  It  is  vain  to  attempt  a  description, 
or  seek  even  to  record  the  feeling  which 
the  edifice  inspires.  It  does  not  impress 
the  beholder  as  an  inanimate  object,  but 
as  something  that  has  a  vast,  quiet,  long- 
enduring  life  of  its  own,  —  a  creation  which 
man  did  not  build,  though  in  some  way  or 
other  it  is  connected  with  him,  and  kindred 
to  human  nature.  In  short,  I  fall  straight 
way  to  talking  nonsense,  when  I  try  to  ex 
press  my  inner  sense  of  this  and  other 
cathedrals. 

While  we  stood  in  the  close,  at  the  east 
ern  end  of  the  minster,  the  clock  chimed 
the  quarters ;  and  then  Great  Tom,  who 
hangs  in  the  Rood  Tower,  told  us  it  was 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      245 

eight  o'clock,  in  far  the  sweetest  and  might 
iest  accents  that  I  ever  heard  from  any 
bell,  —  slow,  and  solemn,  and  allowing  the 
profound  reverberations  of  each  stroke  to 
die  away  before  the  next  one  fell.  It  was 
still  broad  daylight  in  that  upper  region  of 
the  town,  and  would  be  so  for  some  time 
longer  ;  but  the  evening  atmosphere  was 
getting  sharp  and  cool.  We  therefore  de 
scended  the  steep  street,  —  our  younger 
companion  running  before  us,  and  gather 
ing  such  headway  that  I  fully  expected  him 
to  break  his  head  against  some  projecting 
wall. 

In  the  morning  we  took  a  fly  (an  English 
term  for  an  exceedingly  sluggish  vehicle), 
and  drove  up  to  the  minster  by  a  road 
rather  less  steep  and  abrupt  than  the  one 
we  had  previously  climbed.  We  alighted 
before  the  west  front,  and  sent  our  chariot 
eer  in  quest  of  the  verger ;  but,  as  he  was 
not  immediately  to  be  found,  a  young  girl 
let  us  into  the  nave.  We  found  it  very 
grand,  it  is  needless  to  say,  but  not  so  grand, 
methought,  as  the  vast  nave  of  York  Min 
ster,  especially  beneath  the  great  central 
tower  of  the  latter.  Unless  a  writer  intends 
a  professedly  architectural  description, 
there  is  but  one  set  of  phrases  in  which  to 


246  OUR   OLD  HOME 

talk  of  all  the  cathedrals  in  England  and 
elsewhere.  They  are  alike  in  their  great 
features :  an  acre  or  two  of  stone  flags  for 
a  pavement ;  rows  of  vast  columns  support 
ing  a  vaulted  roof  at  a  dusky  height  ;  great 
windows,  sometimes  richly  bedimmed  with 
ancient  or  modern  stained  glass  ;  and  an 
elaborately  carved  screen  between  the  nave 
and  chancel,  breaking  the  vista  that  might 
else  be  of  such  glorious  length,  and  which 
is  further  choked  up  by  a  massive  organ,  — 
in  spite  of  which  obstructions  you  catch 
the  broad,  variegated  glimmer  of  the  paint 
ed  east  window,  where  a  hundred  saints 
wear  their  robes  of  transfiguration.  Behind 
the  screens  are  the  carved  oaken  stalls  of 
the  Chapter  and  Prebendaries,  the  Bishop's 
throne,  the  pulpit,  the  altar,  and  whatever 
else  may  furnish  out  the  Holy  of  Holies. 
Nor  must  we  forget  the  range  of  chapels 
(once  dedicated  to  Catholic  saints,  but 
which  have  now  lost  their  individual  conse 
cration),  nor  the  old  monuments  of  kings, 
warriors,  and  prelates,  in  the  side-aisles  of 
the  chancel.  In  close  contiguity  to  the 
main  body  of  the  Cathedral  is  the  Chapter- 
House,  which,  here  at  Lincoln,  as  at  Salis 
bury,  is  supported  by  one  central  pillar 
rising  from  the  floor,  and  putting  forth 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      247 

branches  like  a  tree,  to  hold  up  the  roof. 
Adjacent  to  the  Chapter-House  are  the 
cloisters,  extending  round  a  quadrangle, 
and  paved  with  lettered  tombstones,  the 
more  antique  of  which  have  had  their  in 
scriptions  half  obliterated  by  the  feet  of 
monks  taking  their  noontide  exercise  in 
these  sheltered  walks,  five  hundred  years 
ago.  Some  of  these  old  burial-stones,  al 
though  with  ancient  crosses  engraved  upon 
them,  have  been  made  to  serve  as  memorials 
to  dead  people  of  very  recent  date. 

In  the  chancel,  among  the  tombs  of  for 
gotten  bishops  and  knights,  we  saw  an 
immense  slab  of  stone  purporting  to  be  the 
monument  of  Catherine  Swynford,  wife  of 
John  of  Gaunt ;  also,  here  was  the  shrine 
of  the  little  Saint  Hugh,  that  Christian 
child  who  was  fabled  to  have  been  crucified 
by  the  Jews  of  Lincoln.  The  cathedral  is 
not  particularly  rich  in  monuments  ;  for  it 
suffered  grievous  outrage  and  dilapidation, 
both  at  the  Reformation  and  in  Cromwell's 
time.  This  latter  iconoclast  is  in  especially 
bad  odor  with  the  sextons  and  vergers  of 
most  of  the  old  churches  which  I  have 
visited.  His  soldiers  stabled  their  steeds 
in  the  nave  of  Lincoln  Cathedral,  and 
hacked  and  hewed  the  monkish  sculptures, 


248  OUR   OLD  HOAfE 

and  the  ancestral  memorials  of  great  fam 
ilies,  quite  at  their  wicked  and  plebeian 
pleasure.  Nevertheless,  there  are  some 
most  exquisite  and  marvelous  specimens 
of  flowers,  foliage,  and  grapevines,  and  mir 
acles  of  stonework  twined  about  arches,  as 
if  the  material  had  been  as  soft  as  wax  in 
the  cunning  sculptor's  hands,  —  the  leaves 
being  represented  with  all  their  veins,  so 
that  you  would  almost  think  it  petrified 
Nature,  for  which  he  sought  to  steal  the 
praise  of  Art.  Here,  too,  were  those  gro 
tesque  faces  which  always  grin  at  you  from 
the  projections  of  monkish  architecture,  as 
if  the  builders  had  gone  mad  with  their 
own  deep  solemnity,  or  dreaded  such  a 
catastrophe,  unless  permitted  to  throw  in 
something  ineffably  absurd. 

Originally,  it  is  supposed,  all  the  pillars 
of  this  great  edifice,  and  all  these  magic 
sculptures,  were  polished  to  the  utmost 
degree  of  lustre ;  nor  is  it  unreasonable 
to  think  that  the  artists  would  have  taken 
these  further  pains,  when  they  had  already 
bestowed  so  much  labor  in  working  out 
their  conceptions  to  the  extremest  point. 
But,  at  present,  the  whole  interior  of  the 
cathedral  is  smeared  over  with  a  yellowish 
wash,  the  very  meanest  hue  imaginable. 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON       249 

and  for  which  somebody's  soul  has  a  bitter 
reckoning  to  undergo. 

In  the  centre  of  the  grassy  quadrangle 
about  which  the  cloisters  perambulate  is  a 
small,  mean  brick  building,  with  a  locked 
door.  Our  guide,  —  I  forgot  to  say  that 
we  had  been  captured  by  a  verger,  in  black, 
and  with  a  white  tie,  but  of  a  lusty  and 
jolly  aspect,  —  our  guide  unlocked  this 
door,  and  disclosed  a  flight  of  steps.  At 
the  bottom  appeared  what  I  should  have 
taken  to  be  a  large  square  of  dim,  worn, 
and  faded  oil-carpeting,  which  might  origi 
nally  have  been  painted  of  a  rather  gaudy 
pattern.  This  was  a  Roman  tessellated 
pavement,  made  of  small  colored  bricks,  or 
pieces  of  burnt  clay.  It  was  accidentally 
discovered  here,  and  has  not  been  meddled 
with,  further  than  by  removing  the  super 
incumbent  earth  and  rubbish. 

Nothing  else  occurs  to  me,  just  now,  to 
be  recorded  about  the  interior  of  the  cathe 
dral,  except  that  we  saw  a  place  where  the 
stone  pavement  had  been  worn  away  by 
the  feet  of  ancient  pilgrims  scraping  upon 
it,  as  they  knelt  down  before  a  shrine  of 
the  Virgin. 

Leaving  the  cathedral,  we  now  went  along 
a  street  of  more  venerable  appearance  than 


250  OUR   OLD  HOME 

we  had  heretofore  seen,  bordered  with 
houses,  the  high-peaked  roofs  of  which 
were  covered  with  red  earthen  tiles.  It 
led  us  to  a  Roman  arch,  which  was  once 
the  gateway  of  a  fortification,  and  has  been 
striding  across  the  English  street  ever  since 
the  latter  was  a  faint  village-path,  and  for 
centuries  before.  The  arch  is  about  four 
hundred  yards  from  the  cathedral,  and  it  is 
to  be  noticed  that  there  are  Roman  re 
mains  in  all  this  neighborhood,  some  above 
ground,  and  doubtless  innumerable  more 
beneath  it ;  for,  as  in  ancient  Rome  itself, 
an  inundation  of  accumulated  soil  seems  to 
have  swept  over  what  was  the  surface  of 
that  earlier  day.  The  gateway  which  I  am 
speaking  about  is  probably  buried  to  a  third 
of  its  height,  and  perhaps  has  as  perfect  a 
Roman  pavement  (if  sought  for  at  the  orig 
inal  depth)  as  that  which  runs  beneath  the 
Arch  of  Titus.  It  is  a  rude  and  massive 
structure,  and  seems  as  stalwart  now  as  it 
could  have  been  two  thousand  years  ago  ; 
and  though  Time  has  gnawed  it  externally, 
he  has  made  what  amends  he  could  by 
crowning  its  rough  and  broken  summit 
with  grass  and  weeds,  and  planting  tufts  of 
yellow  flowers  on  the  projections  up  and 
down  the  sides. 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      2$l 

There  are  the  ruins  of  a  Norman  castle, 
built  by  the  Conqueror,  in  pretty  close 
proximity  to  the  cathedral ;  but  the  old 
gateway  is  obstructed  by  a  modern  door 
of  wood,  and  we  were  denied  admittance, 
because  some  parts  of  the  precincts  are 
used  as  a  prison.  We  now  rambled  about 
on  the  broad  back  of  the  hill,  which,  be 
sides  the  cathedral  and  ruined  castle,  is  the 
site  of  some  stately  and  queer  old  houses, 
and  of  many  mean  little  hovels.  I  suspect 
that  all  or  most  of  the  life  of  the  present 
day  has  subsided  into  the  lower  town,  and 
that  only  priests,  poor  people,  and  pris 
oners  dwell  in  these  upper  regions.  In  the 
wide,  dry  moat,  at  the  base  of  the  castle 
wall,  are  clustered  whole  colonies  of  small 
houses,  some  of  brick,  but  the  larger  por 
tion  built  of  old  stones  which  once  made 
part  of  the  Norman  keep,  or  of  Roman 
structures  that  existed  before  the  Con 
queror's  castle  was  ever  dreamed  about. 
They  are  like  toadstools  that  spring  up 
from  the  mould  of  a  decaying  tree.  Ugly 
as  they  are,  they  add  wonderfully  to  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  scene,  being  quite 
as  valuable,  in  that  respect,  as  the  great, 
broad,  ponderous  ruin  of  the  castle-keep, 
which  rose  high  above  our  heads,  heaving 


252  OUR   OLD  HOME 

its  huge,  gray  mass  out  of  a  bank  of  green 
foliage  and  ornamental  shrubbery,  such  as 
lilacs,  and  other  flowering  plants,  in  which 
its  foundations  were  completely  hidden. 

After  walking  quite  round  the  castle, 
I  made  an  excursion  through  the  Roman 
gateway,  along  a  pleasant  and  level  road 
bordered  with  dwellings  of  various  char 
acter.  One  or  two  were  houses  of  gentil 
ity,  with  delightful  and  shadowy  lawns  be 
fore  them  ;  many  had  those  high,  red-tiled 
roofs,  ascending  into  acutely  pointed  ga 
bles,  which  seem  to  belong  to  the  same 
epoch  as  some  of  the  edifices  in  our  own 
earlier  towns ;  and  there  were  pleasant- 
looking  cottages,  very  sylvan  and  rural, 
with  hedges  so  dense  and  high,  fencing 
them  in,  as  almost  to  hide  them  up  to  the 
eaves  of  their  thatched  roofs.  In  front  of 
one  of  these  I  saw  various  images,  crosses, 
and  relics  of  antiquity,  among  which  were 
fragments  of  old  Catholic  tombstones,  dis 
posed  by  way  of  ornament. 

We  now  went  home  to  the  Saracen's 
Head  ;  and  as  the  weather  was  very  un- 
propitious,  and  it  sprinkled  a  little  now  and 
then,  I  would  gladly  have  felt  myself  re 
leased  from  further  thraldom  to  the  cathe 
dral.  But  it  had  taken  possession  of  me, 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      2$$ 

and  would  not  let  me  be  at  rest ;  so  at 
length  I  found  myself  compelled  to  climb 
the  hill  again  between  daylight  and  dusk. 
A  mist  was  now  hovering  about  the  upper 
height  of  the  great  central  tower,  so  as  to 
dim  and  half  obliterate  its  battlements  and 
pinnacles,  even  while  I  stood  in  the  close 
beneath  it.  It  was  the  most  impressive 
view  that  I  had  had.  The  whole  lower 
part  of  the  structure  was  seen  with  perfect 
distinctness  ;  but  at  the  very  summit  the 
mist  was  so  dense  as  to  form  an  actual 
cloud,  as  well  defined  as  ever  I  saw  resting 
on  a  mountain-top.  Really  and  literally, 
here  was  a  "  cloud-capt  tower." 

The  entire  cathedral,  too,  transfigured 
itself  into  a  richer  beauty  and  more  im 
posing  majesty  than  ever.  The  longer  I 
looked,  the  better  I  loved  it.  Its  exterior 
is  certainly  far  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
York  Minster ;  and  its  finer  effect  is  due, 
I  think,  to  the  many  peaks  in  which  the 
structure  ascends,  and  to  the  pinnacles 
which,  as  it  were,  repeat  and  reecho  them 
into  the  sky.  York  Minster  is  compara 
tively  square  and  angular  in  its  general  ef 
fect  ;  but  in  this  at  Lincoln  there  is  a  con 
tinual  mystery  of  variety,  so  that  at  every 
glance  you  are  aware  of  a  change,  and  a 


254  OUR   OLD  HOME 

disclosure  of  something  new,  yet  working 
an  harmonious  development  of  what  you 
have  heretofore  seen.  The  west  front  is 
unspeakably  grand,  and  may  be  read  over 
and  over  again  forever,  and  still  show  un 
detected  meanings,  like  a  great,  broad  page 
of  marvelous  writing  in  black  -  letter,  — 
so  many  sculptured  ornaments  there  are, 
blossoming  out  before  your  eyes,  and  gray 
statues  that  have  grown  there  since  you 
looked  last,  and  empty  niches,  and  a  hun 
dred  airy  canopies  beneath  which  carved 
images  used  to  be,  and  where  they  will 
show  themselves  again,  if  you  gaze  long 
enough.  But  I  will  not  say  another  word 
about  the  cathedral. 

We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  within  the 
sombre  precincts  of  the  Saracen's  Head, 
reading  yesterday's  "  Times,"  "  The  Guide- 
Book  of  Lincoln,"  and  "The  Directory 
of  the  Eastern  Counties."  Dismal  as  the 
weather  was,  the  street  beneath  our  win 
dow  was  enlivened  with  a  great  bustle  and 
turmoil  of  people  all  the  evening,  because 
it  was  Saturday  night,  and  they  had  ac 
complished  their  week's  toil,  received  their 
wages,  and  were  making  their  small  pur 
chases  against  Sunday,  and  enjoying  them 
selves  as  well  as  they  knew  how.  A  band 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      255 

of  music  passed  to  and  fro  several  times, 
with  the  rain-drops  falling  into  the  mouth 
of  the  brazen  trumpet  and  pattering  on 
the  bass-drum  ;  a  spirit-shop,  opposite  the 
hotel,  had  a  vast  run  of  custom  ;  and  a 
coffee-dealer,  in  the  open  air,  found  occa 
sional,  vent  for  his  commodity,  in  spite  of 
the  cold  water  that  dripped  into  the  cups. 
The  whole  breadth  of  the  street,  between 
the  Stone  Bow  and  the  bridge  across  the 
Witham,  was  thronged  to  overflowing,  and 
humming  with  human  life. 

Observing  in  the  Guide  -  Book  that  a 
steamer  runs  on  the  river  Witham  between 
Lincoln  and  Boston,  I  inquired  of  the 
waiter,  and  learned  that  she  was  to  start 
on  Monday  at  ten  o'clock.  Thinking  it 
might  be  an  interesting  trip,  and  a  pleasant 
variation  of  our  customary  mode  of  travel, 
we  determined  to  make  the  voyage.  The 
Witham  flows  through  Lincoln,  crossing 
the  main  street  under  an  arched  bridge  of 
Gothic  construction,  a  little  below  the  Sar 
acen's  Head.  It  has  more  the  appearance 
of  a  canal  than  of  a  river,  in  its  passage 
through  the  town,  —  being  bordered  with 
hewn-stone  mason-work  on  each  side,  and 
provided  with  one  or  two  locks.  The 
steamer  proved  to  be  small,  dirty,  and 


256  OUR   OLD  HOME 

altogether  inconvenient.  The  early  morn 
ing  had  been  bright ;  but  the  sky  now  low 
ered  upon  us  with  a  sulky  English  temper, 
and  we  had  not  long  put  off  before  we  felt 
an  ugly  wind  from  the  German  Ocean 
blowing  right  in  our  teeth.  There  were  a 
number  of  passengers  on  board,  country 
people,  such  as  travel  by  third-class  on  the 
railway  ;  for,  I  suppose,  nobody  but  our 
selves  ever  dreamt  of  voyaging  by  the 
steamer  for  the  sake  of  what  he  might 
happen  upon  in  the  way  of  river  scenery. 

We  bothered  a  good  while  about  get 
ting  through  a  preliminary  lock ;  nor,  when 
fairly  under  way,  did  we  ever  accomplish, 
I  think,  six  miles  an  hour.  Constant  de 
lays  were  caused,  moreover,  by  stopping  to 
take  up  passengers  and  freight,  —  not  at 
regular  landing-places,  but  anywhere  along 
the  green  banks.  The  scenery  was  iden 
tical  with  that  of  the  railway,  because  the 
latter  runs  along  by  the  river-side  through 
the  whole  distance,  or  nowhere  departs  from 
it  except  to  make  a  short  cut  across  some 
sinuosity  ;  so  that  our  only  advantage  lay  in 
the  drawling,  snail-like  slothfulness  of  our 
progress,  which  allowed  us  time  enough  and 
to  spare  for  the  objects  along  the  shore.  Un 
fortunately,  there  was  nothing,  or  next  to 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      2$? 

nothing,  to  be  seen,  —  the  country  being  one 
unvaried  level  over  the  whole  thirty  miles 
of  our  voyage,  —  not  a  hill  in  sight  either 
near  or  far,  except  that  solitary  one  on  the 
summit  of  which  we  had  left  Lincoln  Cathe 
dral.  And  the  cathedral  was  our  landmark 
for  four  hours  or  more,  and  at  last  rather 
faded  out  than  was  hidden  by  any  interven 
ing  object. 

It  would  have  been  a  pleasantly  lazy 
day  enough,  if  the  rough  and  bitter  wind 
had  not  blown  directly  in  our  faces,  and 
chilled  us  through,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine 
that  soon  succeeded  a  sprinkle  or  two  of 
rain.  These  English  east  winds,  which 
prevail  from  February  till  June,  are  greater 
nuisances  than  the  east  wind  of  our  own 
Atlantic  coast,  although  they  do  not  bring 
mist  and  storm,  as  with  us,  but  some  of 
the  sunniest  weather  that  England  sees. 
Under  their  influence,  the  sky  smiles  and 
is  villainous. 

The  landscape  was  tame  to  the  last  de 
gree,  but  had  an  English  character  that 
was  abundantly  worth  our  looking  at.  A 
green  luxuriance  of  early  grass  ;  old,  high- 
roofed  farmhouses,  surrounded  by  their 
stone  barns  and  ricks  of  hay  and  grain ; 
ancient  villages,  with  the  square,  gray 


258  OUR   OLD  HOME 

tower  of  a  church  seen  afar  over  the  level 
country,  amid  the  cluster  of  red  roofs ; 
here  and  there  a  shadowy  grove  of  vener 
able  trees,  surrounding  what  was  perhaps 
an  Elizabethan  hall,  though  it  looked  more 
like  the  abode  of  some  rich  yeoman.  Once, 
too,  we  saw  the  tower  of  a  mediaeval  castle, 
that  of  Tattershall,  built  by  a  Cromwell, 
but  whether  of  the  Protector's  family  I 
cannot  tell.  But  the  gentry  do  not  appear 
to  have  settled  multitudinously  in  this  tract 
of  country ;  nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at, 
since  a  lover  of  the  picturesque  would  as 
soon  think  of  settling  in  Holland.  The 
river  retains  its  canal-like  aspect  all  along ; 
and  only  in  the  latter  part  of  its  course 
does  it  become  more  than  wide  enough 
for  the  little  steamer  to  turn  itself  round, 
—  at  broadest,  not  more  than  twice  that 
width. 

The  only  memorable  incident  of  our  voy 
age  happened  when  a  mother-duck  was 
leading  her  little  fleet  of  five  ducklings 
across  the  river,  just  as  our  steamer  went 
swaggering  by,  stirring  the  quiet  stream 
into  great  waves  that  lashed  the  banks  on 
either  side.  I  saw  the  imminence  of  the 
catastrophe,  and  hurried  to  the  stern  of  the 
boat  to  witness  its  consummation,  since  I 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     259 

could  not  possibly  avert  it.  The  poor  duck 
lings  had  uttered  their  baby  quacks,  and 
striven  with  all  their  tiny  might  to  escape ; 
four  of  them,  I  believe,  were  washed  aside 
and  thrown  off  unhurt  from  the  steamer's 
prow  ;  but  the  fifth  must  have  gone  under 
the  whole  length  of  the  keel,  and  never 
could  have  come  up  alive. 

At  last,  in  mid-afternoon,  we  beheld  the 
tall  tower  of  Saint  Botolph's  Church  (three 
hundred  feet  high,  the  same  elevation  as 
the  tallest  tower  of  Lincoln  Cathedral)  loom 
ing  in  the  distance.  At  about  half  past  four 
we  reached  Boston  (which  name  has  been 
shortened,  in  the  course  of  ages,  by  the 
quick  and  slovenly  English  pronunciation, 
from  Botolph's  town),  and  were  taken  by  a 
cab  to  the  Peacock,  in  the  market-place. 
It  was  the  best  hotel  in  town,  though 
a  poor  one  enough  ;  and  we  were  shown 
into  a  small,  stifled  parlor,  dingy,  musty, 
and  scented  with  stale  tobacco-smoke,  — 
tobacco-smoke  two  days  old,  for  the  waiter 
assured  us  that  the  room  had  not  more 
recently  been  fumigated.  An  exceedingly 
grim  waiter  he  was,  apparently  a  genuine 
descendant  of  the  old  Puritans  of  this  Eng 
lish  Boston,  and  quite  as  sour  as  those  who 
people  the  daughter-city  in  New  England. 


260  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Our  parlor  had  the  one  recommendation  of 
looking  into  the  market-place,  and  afford 
ing  a  sidelong  glimpse  of  the  tall  spire  and 
noble  old  church. 

In  my  first  ramble  about  the  town, 
chance  led  me  to  the  river-side,  at  that 
quarter  where  the  port  is  situated.  Here 
were  long  buildings  of  an  old-fashioned  as 
pect,  seemingly  warehouses,  with  windows 
in  the  high,  steep  roofs.  The  Custom 
House  found  ample  accommodation  within 
an  ordinary  dwelling-house.  Two  or  three 
large  schooners  were  moored  along  the 
river's  brink,  which  had  here  a  stone  mar 
gin  ;  another  large  and  handsome  schooner 
was  evidently  just  finished,  rigged  and 
equipped  for  her  first  voyage ;  the  rudi 
ments  of  another  were  on  the  stocks,  in  a 
shipyard  bordering  on  the  river.  Still  an 
other,  while  I  was  looking  on,  came  up  the 
stream,  and  lowered  her  mainsail,  from  a 
foreign  voyage.  An  old  man  on  the  bank 
hailed  her  and  inquired  about  her  cargo  ; 
but  the  Lincolnshire  people  have  such  a 
queer  way  of  talking  English  that  I  could 
not  understand  the  reply.  Farther  down 
the  river,  I  saw  a  brig,  approaching  rap 
idly  under  sail.  The  whole  scene  made  an 
odd  impression  of  bustle,  and  sluggishness, 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD   BOSTON     26 1 

and  decay,  and  a  remnant  of  wholesome 
life  ;  and  I  could  but  contrast  it  with  the 
mighty  and  populous  activity  of  our  own 
Boston,  which  was  once  the  feeble  infant 
of  this  old  English  town,  —  the  latter,  per 
haps,  almost  stationary  ever  since  that  day, 
as  if  the  birth  of  such  an  offspring  had 
taken  away  its  own  principle  of  growth. 
I  thought  of  Long  Wharf,  and  Faneuil 
Hall,  and  Washington  Street,  and  the 
Great  Elm,  and  the  State  House,  and  ex 
ulted  lustily,  -  -  but  yet  began  to  feel  at 
home  in  this  good  old  town,  for  its  very 
name's  sake,  as  I  never  had  before  felt,  in 
England. 

The  next  morning  we  came  out  in  the 
early  sunshine  (the  sun  must  have  been 
shining  nearly  four  hours,  however,  for  it 
was  after  eight  o'clock),  and  strolled  about 
the  streets,  like  people  who  had  a  right  to 
be  there.  The  market-place  of  Boston  is 
an  irregular  square,  into  one  end  of  which 
the  chancel  of  the  church  slightly  projects. 
The  gates  of  the  churchyard  were  open 
and  free  to  all  passengers,  and  the  common 
footway  of  the  townspeople  seems  to  lie  to 
and  fro  across  it.  It  is  paved,  according 
to  English  custom,  with  flat  tombstones  ; 
and  there  are  also  raised  or  altar  tombs, 


262  OUR   OLD  HOME 

some  of  which  have  armorial  bearings  on 
them.  One  clergyman  has  caused  himself 
and  his  wife  to  be  buried  right  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  stone-bordered  path  that  tra 
verses  the  churchyard  ;  so  that  not  an  in 
dividual  of  the  thousands  who  pass  along 
this  public  way  can  help  trampling  over 
him  or  her.  The  scene,  nevertheless,  was 
very  cheerful  in  the  morning  sun :  people 
going  about  their  business  in  the  day's 
primal  freshness,  which  was  just  as  fresh 
here  as  in  younger  villages  ;  children  with 
milk-pails  loitering  over  the  burial-stones  ; 
schoolboys  playing  leap-frog  with  the  altar- 
tombs  ;  the  simple  old  town  preparing  it 
self  for  the  day,  which  would  be  like  myr 
iads  of  other  days  that  had  passed  over  it, 
but  yet  would  be  worth  living  through.  And 
down  on  the  churchyard,  where  were  bur 
ied  many  generations  whom  it  remembered 
in  their  time,  looked  the  stately  tower  of 
Saint  Botolph  ;  and  it  was  good  to  see  and 
think  of  such  an  age-long  giant  intermarry 
ing  the  present  epoch  with  a  distant  past, 
and  getting  quite  imbued  with  human  na 
ture  by  being  so  immemorially  connected 
with  men's  familiar  knowledge  and  homely 
interests.  It  is  a  noble  tower  ;  and  the 
jackdaws,  evidently,  have  pleasant  homes  in 


PILGRIMAGE   TO   OLD   BOSTON      263 

their  hereditary  nests  among  its  topmost 
windows,  and  live  delightful  lives,  flitting 
and  cawing  about  its  pinnacles  and  flying 
buttresses.  I  should  almost  like  to  be  a 
jackdaw  myself,  for  the  sake  of  living  up 
there. 

In  front  of  the  church,  not  more  than 
twenty  yards  off,  and  with  a  low  brick  wall 
between,  flows  the  river  Witham.  On  the 
hither  bank  a  fisherman  was  washing  his 
boat  ;  and  another  skiff,  with  her  sail  lazily 
half  twisted,  lay  on  the  opposite  strand. 
The  stream  at  this  point  is  about  of  such 
width  that,  if  the  tall  tower  were  to  tum 
ble  over  flat  on  its  face,  its  topstone 
might  perhaps  reach  to  the  middle  of  the 
channel.  On  the  farther  shore  there  is  a 
line  of  antique-looking  houses,  with  roofs 
of  red  tile,  and  windows  opening  out  of 
them,  —  some  of  these  dwellings  being  so 
ancient  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Cotton,  sub 
sequently  our  first  Boston  minister,  must 
have  seen  them  with  his  own  bodily  eyes 
when  he  used  to  issue  from  the  front  portal 
after  service.  Indeed,  there  must  be  very 
many  houses  here,  and  even  some  streets, 
that  bear  much  the  aspect  that  they  did 
when  the  Puritan  divine  paced  solemnly 
among  them. 


264  OUR   OLD   HOME 

In  our  rambles  about  town,  we  went  into 
a  bookseller's  shop  to  inquire  if  he  had 
any  description  of  Boston  for  sale.  He 
offered  me  (or,  rather,  produced  for  inspec 
tion,  not  supposing  that  I  would  buy  it)  a 
quarto  history  of  the  town,  published  by 
subscription,  nearly  forty  years  ago.  The 
bookseller  showed  himself  a  well-informed 
and  affable  man,  and  a  local  antiquary,  to 
whom  a  party  of  inquisitive  strangers  were 
a  godsend.  He  had  met  with  several  Amer 
icans,  who,  at  various  times,  had  come  on 
pilgrimages  to  this  place,  and  he  had  been 
in  correspondence  with  others.  Happen 
ing  to  have  heard  the  name  of  one  member 
of  our  party,  he  showed  us  great  courtesy 
and  kindness,  and  invited  us  into  his  inner 
domicile,  where,  as  he  modestly  intimated, 
he  kept  a  few  articles  which  it  might  in 
terest  us  to  see.  So  we  went  with  him 
through  the  shop,  upstairs,  into  the  private 
part  of  his  establishment  ;  and,  really,  it 
was  one  of  the  rarest  adventures  I  ever 
met  with,  to  stumble  upon  this  treasure  of 
a  man,  with  his  treasury  of  antiquities  and 
curiosities,  veiled  behind  the  unostenta 
tious  front  of  a  bookseller's  shop,  in  a  very 
moderate  line  of  village  business.  The 
two  upstair  rooms  into  which  he  introduced 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     26$ 

us  were  so  crowded  with  inestimable  arti 
cles,  that  we  were  almost  afraid  to  stir  for 
fear  of  breaking  some  fragile  thing  that 
had  been  accumulating  value  for  unknown 
centuries. 

The  apartment  was  hung  round  with 
pictures  and  old  engravings,  many  of  which 
were  extremely  rare.  Premising  that  he 
was  going  to  show  us  something  very  cu 
rious,  Mr.  Porter  went  into  the  next  room 
and  returned  with  a  counterpane  of  fine 
linen,  elaborately  embroidered  with  silk, 
which  so  profusely  covered  the  linen  that 
the  general  effect  was  as  if  the  main  texture 
were  silken.  It  was  stained  and  seemed 
very  old,  and  had  an  ancient  fragrance.  It 
was  wrought  all  over  with  birds  and  flowers 
in  a  most  delicate  style  of  needlework,  and 
among  other  devices,  more  than  once  re 
peated,  was  the  cipher  M.  S.,  —  being  the 
initials  of  one  of  the  most  unhappy  names 
that  ever  a  woman  bore.  This  quilt  was 
embroidered  by  the  hands  of  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  during  her  imprisonment  at  Foth- 
eringay  Castle  ;  and  having  evidently  been 
a  work  of  years,  she  had  doubtless  shed 
many  tears  over  it,  and  wrought  many  dole 
ful  thoughts  and  abortive  schemes  into  its 
texture,  along  with  the  birds  and  flowers. 


266  OUR   OLD  HOME 

As  a  counterpart  to  this  most  precious  relic, 
our  friend  produced  some  of  the  handiwork 
of  a  former  Queen  of  Otaheite,  presented 
by  her  to  Captain  Cook ;  it  was  a  bag, 
cunningly  made  of  some  delicate  vegetable 
stuff,  and  ornamented  with  feathers..  Next, 
he  brought  out  a  green  silk  waistcoat  of 
very  antique  fashion,  trimmed  about  the 
edges  and  pocket-holes  with  a  rich  and 
delicate  embroidery  of  gold  and  silver. 
This  (as  the  possessor  of  the  treasure 
proved,  by  tracing  its  pedigree  till  it  came 
into  his  hands)  was  once  the  vestment  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  Lord  Burleigh  ;  but 
that  great  statesman  must  have  been  a 
person  of  very  moderate  girth  in  the  chest 
and  waist ;  for  the  garment  was  hardly 
more  than  a  comfortable  fit  for  a  boy  of 
eleven,  the  smallest  American  of  our  party, 
who  tried  on  the  gorgeous  waistcoat. 
Then,  Mr.  Porter  produced  some  curiously 
engraved  drinking-glasses,  with  a  view  of 
Saint  Botolph's  steeple  on  one  of  them, 
and  other  Boston  edifices,  public  or  do 
mestic,  on  the  remaining  two,  very  admi 
rably  done.  These  crystal  goblets  had  been 
a  present,  long  ago,  to  an  old  master  of  the 
Free  School  from  his  pupils  ;  and  it  is  very 
rarely,  I  imagine,  that  a  retired  school- 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON      267 

master  can  exhibit  such  trophies  of  grati 
tude  and  affection,  won  from  the  victims 
of  his  birch  rod. 

Our  kind  friend  kept  bringing  out  one 
unexpected  and  wholly  unexpectable  thing 
after  another,  as  if  he  were  a  magician,  and 
had  only  to  fling  a  private  signal  into  the 
air,  and  some  attendant  imp  would  hand 
forth  any  strange  relic  he  might  choose  to 
ask  for.  He  was  especially  rich  in  draw 
ings  by  the  Old  Masters,  producing  two 
or  three,  of  exquisite  delicacy,  by  Raphael, 
one  by  Salvator,  a  head  by  Rembrandt,  and 
others,  in  chalk  or  pen-and-ink,  by  Gior 
dano,  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  hands  almost 
as  famous  ;  and  besides  what  were  shown 
us,  there  seemed  to  be  an  endless  supply 
of  these  art-treasures  in  reserve.  On  the 
wall  hung  a  crayon-portrait  of  Sterne,  never 
engraved,  representing  him  as  a  rather 
young  man,  blooming,  and  not  uncomely  ; 
it  was  the  worldly  face  of  a  man  fond  of 
pleasure,  but  without  that  ugly,  keen,  sar 
castic,  odd  expression  that  we  see  in  his  only 
engraved  portrait.  The  picture  is  an  orig 
inal,  and  must  needs  be  very  valuable ;  and 
we  wish  it  might  be  prefixed  to  some  new 
and  worthier  biography  of  a  writer  whose 
character  the  world  has  always  treated  with 


268  OUR   OLD   HOME 

singular  harshness,  considering  how  much 
it  owes  him.  There  was  likewise  a  crayon- 
portrait  of  Sterne's  wife,  looking  so  haughty 
and  unamiable  that  the  wonder  is,  not  that 
he  ultimately  left  her,  but  how  he  ever 
contrived  to  live  a  week  with  such  an  awful 
woman. 

After  looking  at  these,  and  a  great  many 
more  things  that  I  can  remember,  above 
stairs,  we  went  down  to  a  parlor,  where 
this  wonderful  bookseller  opened  an  old 
cabinet,  containing  numberless  drawers, 
and  looking  just  fit  to  be  the  repository  of 
such  knick-knacks  as  were  stored  up  in  it. 
He  appeared  to  possess  more  treasures  than 
he  himself  knew  of,  or  knew  where  to  find ; 
but,  rummaging  here  and  there,  he  brought 
forth  things  new  and  old  :  rose-nobles,  Vic 
toria  crowns,  gold  angels,  double  sovereigns 
of  George  IV.,  two-guinea  pieces  of  George 
II.  ;  a  marriage-medal  of  the  first  Napoleon, 
only  forty-five  of  which  were  ever  struck 
off,  and  of  which  even  the  British  Museum 
does  not  contain  a  specimen  like  this,  in 
gold ;  a  brass  medal,  three  or  four  inches 
in  diameter,  of  a  Roman  emperor ;  together 
with  buckles,  bracelets,  amulets,  and  I  know 
not  what  besides.  There  was  a  green  silk 
tassel  from  the  fringe  of  Queen  Mary's 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     269 

bed  at  Holyrood  Palace.  There  were  illu 
minated  missals,  antique  Latin  Bibles,  and 
(what  may  seem  of  especial  interest  to  the 
historian)  a  Secret-Book  of  Queen  Eliza 
beth,  in  manuscript,  written,  for  aught  I 
know,  by  her  own  hand.  On  examination, 
however,  it  proved  to  contain,  not  secrets 
of  state,  but  recipes  for  dishes,  drinks, 
medicines,  washes,  and  all  such  matters  of 
housewifery,  the  toilet,  and  domestic  quack 
ery,  among  which  we  were  horrified  by  the 
title  of  one  of  the  nostrums,  "  How  to  kill 
a  Fellow  quickly" !  We  never  doubted 
that  bloody  Queen  Bess  might  often  have 
had  occasion  for  such  a  recipe,  but  won 
dered  at  her  frankness,  and  at  her  attending 
to  these  anomalous  necessities  in  such  a 
methodical  way.  The  truth  is,  we  had  read 
amiss,  and  the  Queen  had  spelt  amiss :  the 
word  was  "  Fellon,  "  a  sort  of  whitlow,  — 
not  "  Fellow." 

Our  hospitable  friend  now  made  us  drink 
a  glass  of  wine,  as  old  and  genuine  as  the 
curiosities  of  his  cabinet  ;  and,  while  sip 
ping  it,  we  ungratefully  tried  to  excite  his 
envy,  by  telling  him  various  things,  in 
teresting  to  an  antiquary  and  virtuoso, 
which  we  had  seen  in  the  course  of  our 
travels  about  England.  We  spoke,  for  in- 


2/O  OUR   OLD  HOME 

stance,  of  a  missal  bound  in  solid  gold  and 
set  around  with  jewels,  but  of  such  intrin 
sic  value  as  no  setting  could  enhance,  for 
it  was  exquisitely  illuminated,  throughout, 
by  the  hand  of  Raphael  himself.  We  men 
tioned  a  little  silver  case  which  once  con 
tained  a  portion  of  the  heart  of  Louis  XIV. 
nicely  done  up  in  spices,  but,  to  the  owner's 
horror  and  astonishment,  Dean  Buckland 
popped  the  kingly  morsel  into  his  mouth, 
and  swallowed  it.  We  told  about  the  black- 
letter  prayer-book  of  King  Charles  the 
Martyr,  used  by  him  upon  the  scaffold, 
taking  which  into  our  hands,  it  opened 
of  itself  at  the  Communion  Service  ;  and 
there,  on  the  left-hand  page,  appeared  a 
spot  about  as  large  as  a  sixpence,  of  a  yel 
lowish  or  brownish  hue :  a  drop  of  the 
king's  blood  had  fallen  there. 

Mr.  Porter  now  accompanied  us  to  the 
church,  but  first  leading  us  to  a  vacant 
spot  of  ground,  where  old  John  Cotton's 
vicarage  had  stood  till  a  very  short  time 
since.  According  to  our  friend's  descrip 
tion,  it  was  a  humble  habitation,  of  the  cot 
tage  order,  built  of  brick,  with  a  thatched 
roof.  The  site  is  now  rudely  fenced  in, 
and  cultivated  as  a  vegetable  garden.  In 
the  right-hand  aisle  of  the  church  there  is 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     2? I 

an  ancient  chapel,  which,  at  the  time  of 
our  visit,  was  in  process  of  restoration,  and 
was  to  be  dedicated  to  Mr.  Cotton,  whom 
these  English  people  consider  as  the 
founder  of  our  American  Boston.  It  would 
contain  a  painted  memorial-window,  in 
honor  of  the  old  Puritan  minister.  A  fes 
tival  in  commemoration  of  the  event  was 
to  take  place  in  the  ensuing  July,  to  which 
I  had  myself  received  an  invitation,  but  I 
knew  too  well  the  pains  and  penalties  in 
curred  by  an  invited  guest  at  public  festi 
vals  in  England  to  accept  it.  It  ought  to 
be  recorded  (and  it  seems  to  have  made 
a  very  kindly  impression  on  our  kinsfolk 
here)  that  five  hundred  pounds  had  been 
contributed  by  persons  in  the  United 
States,  principally  in  Boston,  towards  the 
cost  of  the  memorial-window,  and  the  re 
pair  and  restoration  of  the  chapel. 

After  we  emerged  from  the  chapel,  Mr. 
Porter  approached  us  with  the  vicar,  to 
whom  he  kindly  introduced  us,  and  then 
took  his  leave.  May  a  stranger's  benedic 
tion  rest  upon  him  !  He  is  a  most  pleas 
ant  man ;  rather,  I  imagine,  a  virtuoso 
than  an  antiquary  ;  for  he  seemed  to  value 
the  Queen  of  Otaheite's  bag  as  highly  as 
Queen  Mary's  embroidered  quilt,  and  to 


2/2  OUR   OLD   HOME 

have  an  omnivorous  appetite  for  every 
thing  strange  and  rare.  Would  that  we 
could  fill  up  his  shelves  and  drawers  (if 
there  are  any  vacant  spaces  left)  with  the 
choicest  trifles  that  have  dropped  out  of 
Time's  carpet-bag,  or  give  him  the  carpet 
bag  itself,  to  take  out  what  he  will  ! 

The  vicar  looked  about  thirty  years  old, 
a  gentleman,  evidently  assured  of  his  po 
sition  (as  clergymen  of  the  Established 
Church  invariably  are),  comfortable  and 
well-to-do,  a  scholar  and  a  Christian,  and 
fit  to  be  a  bishop,  knowing  how  to  make 
the  most  of  life  without  prejudice  to  the 
life  to  come.  I  was  glad  to  see  such  a 
model  English  priest  so  suitably  accommo 
dated  with  an  old  English  church.  He 
kindly  and  courteously  did  the  honors, 
showing  us  quite  round  the  interior,  giving 
us  all  the  information  that  we  required,  and 
then  leaving  us  to  the  quiet  enjoyment  of 
what  we  came  to  see. 

The  interior  of  St.  Botolph's  is  very  fine 
and  satisfactory,  as  stately,  almost,  as  a 
cathedral,  and  has  been  repaired  —  so  far 
as  repairs  were  necessary  —  in  a  chaste 
and  noble  style.  The  great  eastern  win 
dow  is  of  modern  painted  glass,  but  is  the 
richest,  mellowest,  and  tenderest  modern 


PILGRIMAGE    TO    OLD  BOSTON     2/3 

window  that  I  have  ever  seen  :  the  art  of 
painting  these  glowing  transparencies  in 
pristine  perfection  being  one  that  the  world 
has  lost.  The  vast,  clear  space  of  the  in 
terior  church  delighted  me.  There  was  no 
screen,  —  nothing  between  the  vestibule 
and  the  altar  to  break  the  long  vista  ;  even 
the  organ  stood  aside,  —  though  it  by  and 
by  made  us  aware  of  its  presence  by  a  me 
lodious  roar.  Around  the  walls  there  were 
old  engraved  brasses,  and  a  stone  coffin, 
and  an  alabaster  knight  of  Saint  John,  and 
an  alabaster  lady,  each  recumbent  at  full 
length,  as  large  as  life,  and  in  perfect  pre 
servation,  except  for  a  slight  modern  touch 
at  the  tips  of  their  noses.  In  the  chancel 
we  saw  a  great  deal  of  oaken  work,  quaintly 
and  admirably  carved,  especially  about  the 
seats  formerly  appropriated  to  the  monks, 
which  were  so  contrived  as  to  tumble  down 
with  a  tremendous  crash  if  the  occupant 
happened  to  fall  asleep. 

We  now  essayed  to  climb  into  the  upper 
regions.  Up  we  went,  winding  and  still 
winding  round  the  circular  stairs,  till  we 
came  to  the  gallery  beneath  the  stone  roof 
of  the  tower,  whence  we  could  look  down 
and  see  the  raised  Font,  and  my  Talma 
lying  on  one  of  the  steps,  and  looking 


2/4  OUR   OLD  HOME 

about  as  big  as  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
Then  up  again,  up,  up,  up,  through  a  yet 
smaller  staircase,  till  we  emerged  into  an 
other  stone  gallery,  above  the  jackdaws, 
and  far  above  the  roof  beneath  which  we 
had  before  made  a  halt.  Then  up  another 
flight,  which  led  us  into  a  pinnacle  of  the 
temple,  but  not  the  highest  ;  so,  retracing 
our  steps,  we  took  the  right  turret  this 
time,  and  emerged  into  the  loftiest  lantern, 
where  we  saw  level  Lincolnshire,  far  and 
near,  though  with  a  haze  on  the  distant 
horizon.  There  were  dusty  roads,  a  river, 
and  canals,  converging  towards  Boston, 
which  —  a  congregation  of  red-tiled  roofs 
—  lay  beneath  our  feet,  with  pygmy  people 
creeping  about  its  narrow  streets.  We 
were  three  hundred  feet  aloft,  and  the  pin 
nacle  on  which  we  stood  is  a  landmark 
forty  miles  at  sea. 

Content,  and  weary  of  our  elevation,  we 
descended  the  corkscrew  stairs  and  left  the 
church ;  the  last  object  that  we  noticed  in 
the  interior  being  a  bird,  which  appeared 
to  be  at  home  there,  and  responded  with 
its  cheerful  notes  to  the  swell  of  the  organ. 
Pausing  on  the  church-steps,  we  observed 
that  there  were  formerly  two  statues,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  doorway ;  the  canopies 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD   BOSTON     2/5 

still  remaining  and  the  pedestals  being 
about  a  yard  from  the  ground.  Some  of 
Mr.  Cotton's  Puritan  parishioners  are  prob 
ably  responsible  for  the  disappearance  of 
these  stone  saints.  This  doorway  at  the 
base  of  the  tower  is  now  much  dilapidated, 
but  must  once  have  been  very  rich  and  of 
a  peculiar  fashion.  It  opens  its  arch 
through  a  great  square  tablet  of  stone, 
reared  against  the  front  of  the  tower.  On 
most  of  the  projections,  whether  on  the 
tower  or  about  the  body  of  the  church, 
there  are  gargoyles  of  genuine  Gothic  gro- 
tesqueness,  —  fiends,  beasts,  angels,  and 
combinations  of  all  three ;  and  where  por 
tions  of  the  edifice  are  restored,  the  modern 
sculptors  have  tried  to  imitate  these  wild 
fantasies,  but  with  very  poor  success.  Ex 
travagance  and  absurdity  have  still  their 
law,  and  should  pay  as  rigid  obedience  to 
it  as  the  primmest  things  on  earth. 

In  our  further  rambles  about  Boston,  we 
crossed  the  river  by  a  bridge,  and  observed 
that  the  larger  part  of  the  town  seems  to 
lie  on  that  side  of  its  navigable  stream. 
The  crooked  streets  and  narrow  lanes  re 
minded  me  much  of  Hanover  Street,  Ann 
Street,  and  other  portions  of  the  North 
End  of  our  American  Boston,  as  I  remem- 


276  OUR   OLD   HOME 

ber  that  picturesque  region  in  my  boyish 
days.  It  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose 
that  the  local  habits  and  recollections  of 
the  first  settlers  may  have  had  some  influ 
ence  on  the  physical  character  of  the  streets 
and  houses  in  the  New  England  metrop 
olis  ;  at  any  rate,  here  is  a  similar  intricacy 
of  bewildering  lanes,  and  numbers  of  old 
peaked  and  projecting-storied  dwellings, 
such  as  I  used  to  see  there.  It  is  singular 
what  a  home-feeling  and  sense  of  kindred 
I  derived  from  this  hereditary  connection 
and  fancied  physiognomical  resemblance 
between  the  old  town  and  its  well-grown 
daughter,  and  how  reluctant  I  was,  after 
chill  years  of  banishment,  to  leave  this 
hospitable  place  on  that  account.  More 
over,  it  recalled  some  of  the  features  of 
another  American  town,  my  own  dear  na 
tive  place,  when  I  saw  the  seafaring  people 
leaning  against  posts,  and  sitting  on  planks, 
under  the  lee  of  warehouses,  —  or  lolling 
on  long-boats,  drawn  up  high  and  dry,  as 
sailors  and  old  wharf-rats  are  accustomed 
to  do,  in  seaports  of  little  business.  In 
other  respects,  the  English  town  is  more 
village-like  than  either  of  the  American 
ones.  The  women  and  budding  girls  chat 
together  at  their  doors,  and  exchange  merry 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     2// 

greetings  with  young  men  ;  children  chase 
one  another  in  the  summer  twilight ; 
schoolboys  sail  little  boats  on  the  river, 
or  play  at  marbles  across  the  flat  tomb 
stones  in  the  churchyard ;  and  ancient 
men,  in  breeches  and  long  waistcoats,  wan 
der  slowly  about  the  streets,  with  a  certain 
familiarity  of  deportment,  as  if  each  one 
were  everybody's  grandfather.  I  have  fre 
quently  observed,  in  old  English  towns, 
that  Old  Age  comes  forth  more  cheerfully 
and  genially  into  the  sunshine  than  among 
ourselves,  where  the  rush,  stir,  bustle,  and 
irreverent  energy  of  youth  are  so  prepon 
derant  that  the  poor,  forlorn  grandsires 
begin  to  doubt  whether  they  have  a  right 
to  breathe  in  such  a  world  any  longer, 
and  so  hide  their  silvery  heads  in  solitude. 
Speaking  of  old  men,  I  am  reminded  of  the 
scholars  of  the  Boston  Charity  School,  who 
walk  about  in  antique,  long-skirted  blue 
coats,  and  knee-breeches,  and  with  bands 
at  their  necks,  — •  perfect  and  grotesque 
pictures  of  the  costume  of  three  centuries 
ago. 

On  the  morning  of  our  departure,  I 
looked  from  the  parlor-window  of  the  Pea 
cock  into  the  market-place,  and  beheld  its 
irregular  square  already  well  covered  with 


278  OUR   OLD  HOME 

booths,  and  more  in  process  of  being  put 
up,  by  stretching  tattered  sail-cloth  on 
poles.  It  was  market-day.  The  dealers 
were  arranging  their  commodities,  consist 
ing  chiefly  of  vegetables,  the  great  bulk  of 
which  seemed  to  be  cabbages.  Later  in 
the  forenoon  there  was  a  much  greater 
variety  of  merchandise :  basket-work,  both 
for  fancy  and  use ;  twig-brooms,  beehives, 
oranges,  rustic  attire  ;  all  sorts  of  things, 
in  short,  that  are  commonly  sold  at  a  rural 
fair.  I  heard  the  lowing  of  cattle,  too,  and 
the  bleating  of  sheep,  and  found  that  there 
was  a  market  for  cows,  oxen,  and  pigs,  in 
another  part  of  the  town.  A  crowd  of 
townspeople  and  Lincolnshire  yeomen  el 
bowed  one  another  in  the  square  ;  Mr. 
Punch  was  squeaking  in  one  corner,  and 
a  vagabond  juggler  tried  to  find  space  for 
his  exhibition  in  another :  so  that  my  final 
glimpse  of  Boston  was  calculated  to  leave 
a  livelier  impression  than  my  former  ones. 
Meanwhile  the  tower  of  Saint  Botolph's 
looked  benignantly  down ;  and  I  fancied  it 
was  bidding  me  farewell,  as  it  did  Mr. 
Cotton,  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago, 
and  telling  me  to  describe  its  venerable 
height,  and  the  town  beneath  it,  to  the 
people  of  the  American  city,  who  are  partly 


PILGRIMAGE    TO   OLD  BOSTON     2/9 

akin,  if  not  to  the  living  inhabitants  of  Old 
Boston,  yet  to  some  of  the  dust  that  lies  in 
its  churchyard. 

One  thing  more.  They  have  a  Bunker 
Hill  in  the  vicinity  of  their  town ;  and 
(what  could  hardly  be  expected  of  an  Eng 
lish  community)  seem  proud  to  think  that 
their  neighborhood  has  given  name  to  our 
first  and  most  widely  celebrated  and  best 
remembered  battlefield. 


VII. 

NEAR   OXFORD 

ON  a  fine  morning  in  September  we  set 
out  on  an  excursion  to  Blenheim,  —  the 
sculptor  and  myself  being  seated  on  the 
box  of  our  four-horse  carriage,  two  more  of 
the  party  in  the  dicky,  and  the  others  less 
agreeably  accommodated  inside.  We  had 
no  coachman,  but  two  postilions  in  short 
scarlet  jackets  and  leather  breeches  with 
top-boots,  each  astride  of  a  horse  ;  so  that, 
all  the  way  along,  when  not  otherwise  at 
tracted,  we  had  the  interesting  spectacle  of 
their  up-and-down  bobbing  in  the  saddle. 
It  was  a  sunny  and  beautiful  day,  a  speci 
men  of  the  perfect  English  weather,  just 
warm  enough  for  comfort, — indeed,  a  little 
too  warm,  perhaps,  in  the  noontide  sun,  — 
yet  retaining  a  mere  spice  or  suspicion 
of  austerity,  which  made  it  all  the  more 
enjoyable. 


282  OUR   OLD   HOME 

The  country  between  Oxford  and  Blen 
heim  is  not  particularly  interesting,  being 
almost  level,  or  undulating  very  slightly  ; 
nor  is  Oxfordshire,  agriculturally,  a  rich 
part  of  England.  We  saw  one  or  two 
hamlets,  and  I  especially  remember  a  pic 
turesque  old  gabled  house  at  a  turnpike 
gate,  and,  altogether,  the  wayside  scenery 
had  an  aspect  of  old-fashioned  English  life ; 
but  there  was  nothing  very  memorable  till 
we  reached  Woodstock,  and  stopped  to 
water  our  horses  at  the  Black  Bear.  This 
neighborhood  is  called  New  Woodstock, 
but  has  by  no  means  the  brand-new  appear 
ance  of  an  American  town,  being  a  large 
village  of  stone  houses,  most  of  them  pretty 
well  time-worn  and  weather-stained.  The 
Black  Bear  is  an  ancient  inn,  large  and 
respectable,  with  balustraded  staircases,  and 
intricate  passages  and  corridors,  and  queer 
old  pictures  and  engravings  hanging  in  the 
entries  and  apartments.  We  ordered  a 
lunch  (the  most  delightful  of  English  insti 
tutions,  next  to  dinner)  to  be  ready  against 
our  return,  and  then  resumed  our  drive  to 
Blenheim. 

The  park  gate  of  Blenheim  stands  close 
to  the  end  of  the  village  street  of  Wood 
stock.  Immediately  on  passing  through  its 


NEAR   OXFORD  283 

portals  we  saw  the  stately  palace  in  the 
distance,  but  made  a  wide  circuit  of  the 
park  before  approaching  it.  This  noble 
park  contains  three  thousand  acres  of  land, 
and  is  fourteen  miles  in  circumference. 
Having  been,  in  part,  a  royal  domain  before 
it  was  granted  to  the  Marlborough  family, 
it  contains  many  trees  of  unsurpassed  an 
tiquity,  and  has  doubtless  been  the  haunt 
of  game  and  deer  for  centuries.  We  saw 
pheasants  in  abundance,  feeding  in  the 
open  lawns  and  glades ;  and  the  stags 
tossed  their  antlers  and  bounded  away,  not 
affrighted,  but  only  shy  and  gamesome,  as 
we  drove  by.  It  is  a  magnificent  pleasure- 
ground,  not  too  tamely  kept,  nor  rigidly 
subjected  within  rule,  but  vast  enough  to 
have  lapsed  -back  into  nature  again,  after 
all  the  pains  that  the  landscape-gardeners 
of  Queen  Anne's  time  bestowed  on  it,  when 
the  domain  of  Blenheim  was  scientifically 
laid  out.  The  great,  knotted,  slanting 
trunks  of  the  old  oaks  do  not  now  look  as 
if  man  had  much  intermeddled  with  their 
growth  and  postures.  The  trees  of  later 
date,  that  were  set  out  in  the  Great  Duke's 
time,  are  arranged  on  the  plan  of  the  order 
of  battle  in  which  the  illustrious  comman 
der  ranked  his  troops  at  Blenheim ;  but  the 


284  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ground  covered  is  so  extensive,  and  the 
trees  now  so  luxuriant,  that  the  spectator 
is  not  disagreeably  conscious  of  their  stand 
ing  in  military  array,  as  if  Orpheus  had 
summoned  them  together  by  beat  of  drum. 
The  effect  must  have  been  very  formal  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  but  has  ceased 
to  be  so,  —  although  the  trees,  I  presume, 
have  kept  their  ranks  with  even  more  fidel 
ity  than  Maryborough's  veterans  did. 

One  of  the  park-keepers,  on  horseback, 
rode  beside  our  carriage,  pointing  out  the 
choice  views,  and  glimpses  at  the  palace,  as 
we  drove  through  the  domain.  There  is  a 
very  large  artificial  lake  (to  say  the  truth, 
it  seemed  to  me  fully  worthy  of  being  com 
pared  with  the  Welsh  lakes,  at  least,  if  not 
with  those  of  Westmoreland),  which  was 
created  by  Capability  Brown,  and  fills  the 
basin  that  he  scooped  for  it,  just  as  if  Na 
ture  had  poured  these  broad  waters  into 
one  of  her  own  valleys.  It  is  a  most  beauti 
ful  object  at  a  distance,  and  not  less  so  on 
its  immediate  banks  ;  for  the  water  is  very 
pure,  being  supplied  by  a  small  river,  of  the 
choicest  transparency,  which  was  turned 
thitherward  for  the  purpose.  And  Blen 
heim  owes  not  merely  this  water  scenery, 
but  almost  all  its  other  beauties,  to  the 


NEAR   OXFORD  285 

contrivance  of  man.  Its  natural  features 
are  not  striking  ;  but  Art  has  effected  such 
wonderful  things  that  the  uninstructed  visi 
tor  would  never  guess  that  nearly  the  whole 
scene  was  but  the  embodied  thought  of 
a  human  mind.  A  skillful  painter  hardly 
does  more  for  his  blank  sheet  of  canvas 
than  the  landscape-gardener,  the  planter, 
the  arranger  of  trees,  has  done  for  the 
monotonous  surface  of  Blenheim,  — making 
the  most  of  every  undulation,  —  flinging 
down  a  hillock,  a  big  lump  of  earth  out  of 
a  giant's  hand,  wherever  it  was  needed,  — 
putting  in  beauty  as  often  as  there  was  a 
niche  for  it,  —  opening  vistas  to  every 
point  that  deserved  to  be  seen,  and  throw 
ing  a  veil  of  impenetrable  foliage  around 
what  ought  to  be  hidden  ;  —  and  then,  to 
be  sure,  the  lapse  of  a  century  has  softened 
the  harsh  outline  of  man's  labors,  and  has 
given  the  place  back  to  Nature  again  with 
the  addition  of  what  consummate  science 
could  achieve. 

After  driving  a  good  way,  we  came  to 
a  battlemented  tower  and  adjoining  house, 
which  used  to  be  the  residence  of  the 
Ranger  of  Woodstock  Park,  who  held 
charge  of  the  property  for  the  King  before 
the  Duke  of  Maryborough  possessed  it. 


286  OUR   OLD  HOME 

The  keeper  opened  the  door  for  us,  and  in 
the  entrance-hall  we  found  various  things 
that  had  to  do  with  the  chase  and  wood 
land  sports.  We  mounted  the  staircase, 
through  several  stories,  up  to  the  top  of 
the  tower,  whence  there  was  a  view  of  the 
spires  of  Oxford,  and  of  points  much  far 
ther  off,  —  very  indistinctly  seen,  however, 
as  is  usually  the  case  with  the  misty 
distances  of  England.  Returning  to  the 
ground-floor,  we  were  ushered  into  the 
room  in  which  died  Wilmot,  the  wicked 
Earl  of  Rochester,  who  was  Ranger  of  the 
Park  in  Charles  II.  's  time.  It  is  a  low 
and  bare  little  room,  with  a  window  in  front, 
and  a  smaller  one  behind ;  and  in  the  con 
tiguous  entrance-room  there  are  the  re 
mains  of  an  old  bedstead,  beneath  the  can 
opy  of  which,  perhaps,  Rochester  may  have 
made  the  penitent  end  that  Bishop  Burnet 
attributes  to  him.  I  hardly  know  what  it 
is,  in  this  poor  fellow's  character,  which 
affects  us  with  greater  tenderness  on  his 
behalf  than  for  all  the  other  profligates  of 
his  day,  who  seem  to  have  been  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  himself.  I  rather 
suspect  that  he  had  a  human  heart  which 
never  quite  died  out  of  him,  and  the  warmth 
of  which  is  still  faintly  perceptible  amid 
the  dissolute  trash  which  he  left  behind. 


NEAR   OXFORD 

Methinks,  if  such  good  fortune  ever  be 
fell  a  bookish  man,  I  should  choose  this 
lodge  for  my  own  residence,  with  the  top 
most  room  of  the  tower  for  a  study,  and  all 
the  seclusion  of  cultivated  wildness  beneath 
to  ramble  in.  There  being  no  such  pos 
sibility,  we  drove  on,  catching  glimpses  of 
the  palace  in  new  points  of  view,  and  by 
and  by  came  to  Rosamond's  Well.  The  par 
ticular  tradition  that  connects  Fair  Rosa 
mond  with  it  is  not  now  in  my  memory  ; 
but  if  Rosamond  ever  lived  and  loved,  and 
ever  had  her  abode  in  the  maze  of  Wood 
stock,  it  may  well  be  believed  that  she  and 
Henry  sometimes  sat  beside  this  spring. 
It  gushes  out  from  a  bank,  through  some 
old  stone-work,  and  dashes  its  little  cascade 
(about  as  abundant  as  one  might  turn  out 
of  a  large  pitcher)  into  a  pool,  whence  it 
steals  away  towards  the  lake,  which  is  not 
far  removed.  The  water  is  exceedingly 
cold,  and  as  pure  as  the  legendary  Rosa 
mond  was  not,  and  is  fancied  to  possess  me 
dicinal  virtues,  like  springs  at  which  saints 
have  quenched  their  thirst.  There  were 
two  or  three  old  women  and  some  children 
in  attendance  with  tumblers,  which  they 
present  to  visitors,  full  of  the  consecrated 
water  ;  but  most  of  us  filled  the  tumblers 
for  ourselves,  and  drank. 


288  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Thence  we  drove  to  the  Triumphal  Pillar 
which  was  erected  in  honor  of  the  Great 
Duke,  and  on  the  summit  of  which  he 
stands,  in  a  Roman  garb,  holding  a  winged 
figure  of  Victory  in  his  hand,  as  an  ordi 
nary  man  might  hold  a  bird.  The  column 
is  I  know  not  how  many  feet  high,  but 
lofty  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  elevate  Marl- 
borough  far  above  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  to  be  visible  a  long  way  off ;  and  it  is 
so  placed  in  reference  to  other  objects, 
that,  wherever  the  hero  wandered  about 
his  grounds,  and  especially  as  he  issued 
from  his  mansion,  he  must  inevitably  have 
been  reminded  of  his  glory.  In  truth,  until 
I  came  to  Blenheim,  I  never  had  so  posi 
tive  and  material  an  idea  of  what  Fame 
really  is  —  of  what  the  admiration  of  his 
country  can  do  for  a  successful  warrior  — 
as  I  carry  away  with  me  and  shall  always 
retain.  Unless  he  had  the  moral  force 
of  a  thousand  men  together,  his  egotism 
(beholding  himself  everywhere,  imbuing 
the  entire  soil,  growing  in  the  woods, 
rippling  and  gleaming  in  the  water,  and 
pervading  the  very  air  with  his  greatness) 
must  have  been  swollen  within  him  like 
the  liver  of  a  Strasburg  goose.  On  the 
huge  tablets  inlaid  into  the  pedestal  of 


NEAR   OXFORD  289 

the  column,  the  entire  Act  of  Parliament, 
bestowing  Blenheim  on  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough  and  his  posterity,  is  engraved  in 
deep  letters,  painted  black  on  the  marble 
ground.  The  pillar  stands  exactly  a  mile 
from  the  principal  front  of  the  palace,  in  a 
straight  line  with  the  precise  centre  of  its 
entrance-hall ;  so  that,  as  already  said,  it 
was  the  Duke's  principal  object  of  con 
templation. 

We  now  proceeded  to  the  palace-gate, 
which  is  a  great  pillared  archway,  of  won 
derful  loftiness  and  state,  giving  admit 
tance  into  a  spacious  quadrangle.  A  stout, 
elderly,  and  rather  surly  footman  in  livery 
appeared  at  the  entrance,  and  took  posses 
sion  of  whatever  canes,  umbrellas,  and  par 
asols  he  could  get  hold  of,  in  order  to 
claim  sixpence  on  our  departure.  This 
had  a  somewhat  ludicrous  effect.  There  is 
much  public  outcry  against  the  meanness 
of  the  present  Duke  in  his  arrangements 
for  the  admission  of  visitors  (chiefly,  of 
course,  his  native  countrymen)  to  view  the 
magnificent  palace  which  their  forefathers 
bestowed  upon  his  own.  In  many  cases, 
it  seems  hard  that  a  private  abode  should 
be  exposed  to  the  intrusion  of  the  public 
merely  because  the  proprietor  has  inherited 


2QO 


OUR   OLD 


or  created  a  splendor  which  attracts  gen 
eral  curiosity  ;  insomuch  that  his  home 
loses  its  sanctity  and  seclusion  for  the 
very  reason  that  it  is  better  than  other 
men's  houses.  But  in  the  case  of  Blen 
heim,  the  public  have  certainly  an  equi 
table  claim  to  admission,  both  because  the 
fame  of  its  first  inhabitant  is  a  national 
possession,  and  because  the  mansion  was 
a  national  gift,  one  of  the  purposes  of 
which  was  to  be  a  token  of  gratitude  and 
glory  to  the  English  people  themselves. 
If  a  man  chooses  to  be  illustrious,  he  is 
very  likely  to  incur  some  little  inconven 
iences  himself,  and  entail  them  on  his  pos 
terity.  Nevertheless,  his  present  Grace 
of  Marlborough  absolutely  ignores  the  pub 
lic  claim  above  suggested,  and  (with  a 
thrift  of  which  even  the  hero  of  Blenheim 
himself  did  not  set  the  example)  sells 
tickets  admitting  six  persons  at  ten  shil 
lings  ;  if  only  one  person  enters  the  gate, 
he  must  pay  for  six  ;  and  if  there  are  seven 
in  company,  two  tickets  are  required  to 
admit  them.  The  attendants,  who  meet 
you  everywhere  in  the  park  and  palace, 
expect  fees  on  their  own  private  account, 
—  their  noble  master  pocketing  the  ten 
shillings.  But,  to  be  sure,  the  visitor  gets 


NEAR   OXFORD  2<)l 

his  money's  worth,  since  it  buys  him  the 
right  to  speak  just  as  freely  of  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough  as  if  he  were  the  keeper 
of  the  Cremorne  Gardens.1 

Passing  through  a  gateway  on  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  quadrangle,  we  had  be 
fore  us  the  noble  classic  front  of  the  pal 
ace,  with  its  two  projecting  wings.  We 
ascended  the  lofty  steps  of  the  portal,  and 
were  admitted  into  the  entrance-hall,  the 
height  of  which,  from  floor  to  ceiling,  is 
not  much  less  than  seventy  feet,  being  the 
entire  elevation  of  the  edifice.  The  hall 
is  lighted  by  windows  in  the  upper  story, 
and,  it  being  a  clear,  bright  day,  was  very 
radiant  with  lofty  sunshine,  amid  which  a 
swallow  was  flitting  to  and  fro.  The  ceiling 
was  painted  by  Sir  James  Thornhill  in  some 
allegorical  design,  (doubtless  commemora 
tive  of  Marlborough' s  victories),  the  pur 
port  of  which  I  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  make  out,  —  contenting  myself  with  the 
general  effect,  which  was  most  splendidly 
and  effectively  ornamental. 

1  The  above  was  written  two  or  three  years  ago,  or 
more  ;  and  the  Duke  of  that  day  has  since  transmitted 
his  coronet  to  his  successor,  who,  we  understand,  has 
adopted  much  more  liberal  arrangements.  There  is 
seldom  anything  to  criticise  or  complain  of,  as  regards 
the  facility  of  obtaining  admission  to  interesting  private 
houses  in  England. 


2Q2  OUR   OLD  HOME 

We  were  guided  through  the  show-rooms 
by  a  very  civil  person,  who  allowed  us  to 
take  pretty  much  our  own  time  in  looking 
at  the  pictures.  The  collection  is  exceed 
ingly  valuable,  —  many  of  these  works  of 
Art  having  been  presented  to  the  Great 
Duke  by  the  crowned  heads  of  England  or 
the  Continent.  One  room  was  all  aglow 
with  pictures  by  Rubens ;  and  there  were 
works  of  Raphael,  and  many  other  famous 
painters,  any  one  of  which  would  be  suffi 
cient  to  illustrate  the  meanest  house  that 
might  contain  it.  I  remember  none  of 
them,  however  (not  being  in  a  picture-see 
ing  mood),  so  well  as  Vandyck's  large  and 
familiar  picture  of  Charles  I.  on  horseback, 
with  a  figure  and  face  of  melancholy  dig 
nity  such  as  never  by  any  other  hand  was 
put  on  canvas.  Yet,  on  considering  this 
face  of  Charles  (which  I  find  often  repeated 
in  half-lengths)  and  translating  it  from  the 
ideal  into  literalism,  I  doubt  whether  the 
unfortunate  king  was  really  a  handsome 
or  impressive-looking  man  :  a  high,  thin- 
ridged  nose,  a  meagre,  hatchet  face,  and 
reddish  hair  and  beard,  —  these  are  the  lit 
eral  facts.  It  is  the  painter's  art  that  has 
thrown  such  pensive  and  shadowy  grace 
around  him. 


NEAR   OXFORD  293 

On  our  passage  through  this  beautiful 
suite  of  apartments,  we  saw,  through  the 
vista  of  open  doorways,  a  boy  of  ten  or 
twelve  years  old  coming  towards  us  from 
the  farther  rooms.  He  had  on  a  straw 
hat,  a  linen  sack  that  had  certainly  been 
washed  and  rewashed  for  a  summer  or 
two,  and  gray  trousers  a  good  deal  worn, 
—  a  dress,  in  short,  which  an  American 
mother  in  middle  station  would  have 
thought  too  shabby  for  her  darling  school 
boy's  ordinary  wear.  This  urchin's  face 
was  rather  pale  (as  those  of  English  chil 
dren  are  apt  to  be,  quite  as  often  as  our 
own),  but  he  had  pleasant  eyes,  an  intelli 
gent  look,  and  an  agreeable  boyish  manner. 
It  was  Lord  Sunderland,  grandson  of  the 
present  Duke,  and  heir  —  though  not,  I 
think,  in  the  direct  line  —  of  the  blood  of 
the  great  Maryborough,  and  of  the  title  and 
estate. 

After  passing  through  the  first  suite  of 
rooms,  we  were  conducted  through  a  corre 
sponding  suite  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
entrance-hall.  These  latter  apartments 
are  most  richly  adorned  with  tapestries, 
wrought  and  presented  to  the  first  Duke 
by  a  sisterhood  of  Flemish  nuns  ;  they  look 
like  great,  glowing  pictures,  and  completely 


294  OUR   OLD  HOME 

cover  the  walls  of  the  rooms.  The  designs 
purport  to  represent  the  Duke's  battles 
and  sieges ;  and  everywhere  we  see  the 
hero  himself,  as  large  as  life,  and  as  gor 
geous  in  scarlet  and  gold  as  the  holy  sisters 
could  make  him,  with  a  three-cornered  hat 
and  flowing  wig,  reining  in  his  horse,  and 
extending  his  leading-staff  in  the  attitude 
of  command.  Next  to  Marlborough,  Prince 
Eugene  is  the  most  prominent  figure.  In 
the  way  of  upholstery,  there  can  never  have 
been  anything  more  magnificent  than  these 
tapestries  ;  and,  considered  as  works  of  Art, 
they  have  quite  as  much  merit  as  nine  pic 
tures  out  of  ten. 

One  whole  wing  of  the  palace  is  occupied 
by  the  library,  a  most  noble  room,  with  a 
vast  perspective  length  from  end  to  end. 
Its  atmosphere  is  brighter  and  more  cheer 
ful  than  that  of  most  libraries  :  a  wonderful 
contrast  to  the  old  college  libraries  of  Ox 
ford,  and  perhaps  less  sombre  and  sugges 
tive  of  thoughtfulness  than  any  large  library 
ought  to  be  ;  inasmuch  as  so  many  stu 
dious  brains  as  have  left  their  deposit  on 
the  shelves  cannot  have  conspired  without 
producing  a  very  serious  and  ponderous 
result.  Both  walls  and  ceiling  are  white, 
and  there  are  elaborate  doorways  and  fire- 


NEAR   OXFORD  295 

places  of  white  marble.  The  floor  is  of 
oak,  so  highly  polished  that  our  feet  slipped 
upon  it  as  if  it  had  been  New  England  ice. 
At  one  end  of  the  room  stands  a  statue 
of  Queen  Anne  in  her  royal  robes,  which 
are  so  admirably  designed  and  exquisitely 
wrought  that  the  spectator  certainly  gets 
a  strong  conception  of  her  royal  dignity ; 
while  the  face  of  the  statue,  fleshy  and 
feeble,  doubtless  conveys  a  suitable  idea  of 
her  personal  character.1  The  marble  of 
this  work,  long  as  it  has  stood  there,  is  as 
white  as  snow  just  fallen,  and  must  have 
required  most  faithful  and  religious  care  to 
keep  it  so.  As  for  the  volumes  of  the 
library,  they  are  wired  within  the  cases, 
and  turn  their  gilded  backs  upon  the  vis 
itor,  keeping  their  treasures  of  wit  and 
wisdom  just  as  intangible  as  if  still  in  the 
unwrought  mines  of  human  thought. 

I  remember  nothing  else  in  the  palace, 
except  the  chapel,  to  which  we  were  con 
ducted  last,  and  where  we  saw  a  splendid 
monument  to  the  first  Duke  and  Duchess, 
sculptured  by  Rysbrach,  at  the  cost,  it  is 
said,  of  forty  thousand  pounds.  The  de- 

1  In  front  of  St.  Paul's  there  is  a  statue  of  Queen 
Anne,  which  looks  rather  more  majestic,  I  doubt  not^ 
than  that  fat  old  dame  ever  did.  — II.  97. 


296  OUR   OLD  HOME 

sign  includes  the  statues  of  the  deceased 
dignitaries,  and  various  allegorical  flour 
ishes,  fantasies,  and  confusions  ;  and  be 
neath  sleep  the  great  Duke  and  his  proud 
wife,  their  veritable  bones  and  dust,  and 
probably  all  the  Marlboroughs  that  have 
since  died.  It  is  not  quite  a  comfortable 
idea  that  these  mouldy  ancestors  still  in 
habit,  after  their  fashion,  the  house  where 
their  successors  spend  the  passing  day  ;  but 
the  adulation  lavished  upon  the  hero  of 
Blenheim  could  not  have  been  consum 
mated,  unless  the  palace  of  his  lifetime  had 
become  likewise  a  stately  mausoleum  over 
his  remains,  —  and  such  we  felt  it  all  to  be, 
after  gazing  at  his  tomb. 

The  next  business  was  to  see  the  private 
gardens.  An  old  Scotch  under-gardener 
admitted  us  and  led  the  way,  and  seemed 
to  have  a  fair  prospect  of  earning  the  fee 
all  by  himself ;  but  by  and  by  another  re 
spectable  Scotchman  made  his  appearance 
and  took  us  in  charge,  proving  to  be  the 
head-gardener  in  person.  He  was  ex 
tremely  intelligent  and  agreeable,  talking 
both  scientifically  and  lovingly  about  trees 
and  plants,  of  which  there  is  every  variety 
capable  of  English  cultivation.  Positively, 
the  Garden  of  Eden  cannot  have  been 


NEAR   OXFORD  297 

more  beautiful  than  this  private  garden  of 
Blenheim.  It  contains  three  hundred  acres, 
and  by  the  artful  circumlocution  of  the 
paths,  and  the  undulations,  and  the  skillfully 
interposed  clumps  of  trees,  is  made  to  ap 
pear  limitless.  The  sylvan  delights  of  a 
whole  country  are  compressed  into  this 
space,  as  whole  fields  of  Persian  roses  go 
to  the  concoction  of  an  ounce  of  precious 
attar.  The  world  within  that  garden-fence 
is  not  the  same  weary  and  dusty  world 
with  which  we  outside  mortals  are  conver 
sant  ;  it  is  a  finer,  lovelier,  more  harmonious 
Nature ;  and  the  Great  Mother  lends  her 
self  kindly  to  the  gardener's  will,  knowing 
that  he  will  make  evident  the  half-obliter 
ated  traits  of  her  pristine  and  ideal  beauty, 
and  allow  her  to  take  all  the  credit  and 
praise  to  herself.  I  doubt  whether  there 
is  ever  any  winter  within  that  precinct,  — 
any  clouds,  except  the  fleecy  ones  of  sum 
mer.  The  sunshine  that  I  saw  there  rests 
upon  my  recollection  of  it  as  if  it  were 
eternal.  The  lawns  and  glades  are  like 
the  memory  of  places  where  one  has  wan 
dered  when  first  in  love. 

What  a  good  and  happy  life  might  be 
spent  in  a  paradise  like  this  !  And  yet,  at 
that  very  moment,  the  besotted  Duke  (ah ! 


298  OUR   OLD  HOME 

I  have  let  out  a  secret  which  I  meant  to 
keep  to  myself ;  but  the  ten  shillings  must 
pay  for  all)  was  in  that  very  garden  (for 
the  guide  told  us  so,  and  cautioned  our 
young  people  not  to  be  too  uproarious), 
and,  if  in  a  condition  for  arithmetic,  was 
thinking  of  nothing  nobler  than  how  many 
ten-shilling  tickets  had  that  day  been  sold. 
Republican  as  I  am,  I  should  still  love  to 
think  that  noblemen  lead  noble  lives,  and 
that  all  this  stately  and  beautiful  environ 
ment  may  serve  to  elevate  them  a  little 
way  above  the  rest  of  us.  If  it  fail  to 
do  so,  the  disgrace  falls  equally  upon  the 
whole  race  of  mortals  as  on  themselves ; 
because  it  proves  that  no  more  favorable 
conditions  of  existence  would  eradicate  our 
vices  and  weaknesses.  How  sad,  if  this  be 
so  !  Even  a  herd  of  swine,  eating  the 
acorns  under  those  magnificent  oaks  of 
Blenheim,  would  be  cleanlier  and  of  better 
habits  than  ordinary  swine. 

Well,  all  that  I  have  written  is  pitifully 
meagre,  as  a  description  of  Blenheim  ;  and 
I  hate  to  leave  it  without  some  more  ade 
quate  expression  of  the  noble  edifice,  with 
its  rich  domain,  all  as  I  saw  them  in  that 
beautiful  sunshine ;  for,  if  a  day  had  been 
chosen  out  of  a  hundred  years,  it  could  not 


NEAR   OXFORD  299 

have  been  a  finer  one.  But  I  must  give 
up  the  attempt ;  only  further  remarking 
that  the  finest  trees  here  were  cedars,  of 
which  I  saw  one  —  and  there  may  have 
been  many  such  —  immense  in  girth,  and 
not  less  than  three  centuries  old.  I  like 
wise  saw  a  vast  heap  of  laurel,  two  hundred 
feet  in  circumference,  all  growing  from  one 
root ;  and  the  gardener  offered  to  show  us 
another  growth  of  twice  that  stupendous 
size.  If  the  Great  Duke  himself  had  been 
buried  in  that  spot,  his  heroic  heart  could 
not  have  been  the  seed  of  a  more  plentiful 
crop  of  laurels. 

We  now  went  back  to  the  Black  Bear, 
and  sat  down  to  a  cold  collation,  of  which 
we  ate  abundantly,  and  drank  (in  the  good 
old  English  fashion)  a  due  proportion  of 
various  delightful  liquors.  A  stranger  in 
England,  in  his  rambles  to  various  quarters 
of  the  country,  may  learn  little  in  regard 
to  wines  (for  the  ordinary  English  taste  is 
simple,  though  sound,  in  that  particular), 
but  he  makes  acquaintance  with  more  va 
rieties  of  hop  and  malt  liquor  than  he  pre 
viously  supposed  to  exist.  I  remember  a 
sort  of  foaming  stuff,  called  hop  -  cham 
pagne,  which  is  very  vivacious,  and  appears 
to  be  a  hybrid  between  ale  and  bottled 


3OO  OUR   OLD  HOME 

cider.  Another  excellent  tipple  for  warm 
weather  is  concocted  by  mixing  brown-stout 
or  bitter  ale  with  ginger-beer,  the  foam  of 
which  stirs  up  the  heavier  liquor  from  its 
depths,  forming  a  compound  of  singular 
vivacity  and  sufficient  body.  But  of  all 
things  ever  brewed  from  malt  (unless  it  be 
the  Trinity  Ale  of  Cambridge,  which  I 
drank  long  afterwards,  and  which  Barry 
Cornwall  has  celebrated  in  immortal  verse), 
commend  me  to  the  Archdeacon,  as  the 
Oxford  scholars  call  it,  in  honor  of  the 
jovial  dignitary  who  first  taught  these  eru 
dite  worthies  how  to  brew  their  favorite 
nectar.  John  Barleycorn  has  given  his 
very  heart  to  this  admirable  liquor  ;  it  is 
a  superior  kind  of  ale,  the  Prince  of  Ales, 
with  a  richer  flavor  and  a  mightier  spirit 
than  you  can  find  elsewhere  in  this  weary 
world.  Much  have  we  been  strengthened 
and  encouraged  by  the  potent  blood  of  the 
Archdeacon  ! 

A  few  days  after  our  excursion  to  Blen 
heim,  the  same  party  set  forth,  in  two  flies, 
on  a  tour  to  some  other  places  of  interest 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Oxford.  It  was 
again  a  delightful  day  ;  and,  in  truth,  every 
day,  of  late,  had  been  so  pleasant  that  it 
seemed  as  if  each  must  be  the  very  last  of 


NEAR   OXFORD  30 1 

such  perfect  weather  ;  and  yet  the  long 
succession  had  given  us  confidence  in  as 
many  more  to  come.  The  climate  of  Eng 
land  has  been  shamefully  maligned,  its  sul- 
kiness  and  asperities  are  not  nearly  so 
offensive  as  Englishmen  tell  us  (their  cli 
mate  being  the  only  attribute  of  their  coun 
try  which  they  never  overvalue)  ;  and  the 
really  good  summer  -  weather  is  the  very 
kindest  and  sweetest  that  the  world  knows. 
We  first  drove  to  the  village  of  Cumnor, 
about  six  miles  from  Oxford,  and  alighted 
at  the  entrance  of  the  church.  Here,  while 
waiting  for  the  keys,  we  looked  at  an  old 
wall  of  the  churchyard,  piled  up  of  loose 
gray  stones,  which  are  said  to  have  once 
formed  a  portion  of  Cumnor  Hall,  cele 
brated  in  Mickle's  ballad  and  Scott's  ro 
mance.  The  hall  must  have  been  in  very 
close  vicinity  to  the  church,  —  not  more 
than  twenty  yards  off  ;  and  I  waded  through 
the  long,  dewy  grass  of  the  churchyard, 
and  tried  to  peep  over  fhe  wall,  in  hopes 
to  discover  some  tangible  and  traceable 
remains  of  the  edifice.  But  the  wall  was 
just  too  high  to  be  overlooked,  and  difficult 
to  clamber  over  without  tumbling  down 
some  of  the  stones ;  so  I  took  the  word  of 
one  of  our  party,  who  had  been  here  be- 


302  OUR  OLD  HOME 

fore,  that  there  is  nothing  interesting  on 
the  other  side.  The  churchyard  is  in  rather 
a  neglected  state,  and  seems  not  to  have 
been  mown  for  the  benefit  of  the  parson's 
cow  ;  it  contains  a  good  many  gravestones, 
of  which  I  remember  only  some  upright 
memorials  of  slate  to  individuals  of  the 
name  of  Tabbs. 

Soon  a  woman  arrived  with  the  key  of 
the  church-door,  and  we  entered  the  simple 
old  edifice,  which  has  the  pavement  of  let 
tered  tombstones,  the  sturdy  pillars  and  low 
arches,  and  other  ordinary  characteristics 
of  an  English  country  church.  One  or  two 
pews,  probably  those  of  the  gentle  folk  of 
the  neighborhood,  were  better  furnished 
than  the  rest,  but  all  in  a  modest  style. 
Near  the  high  altar,  in  the  holiest  place, 
there  is  an  oblong,  angular,  ponderous 
tomb  of  blue  marble,  built  against  the  wall, 
and  surmounted  by  a  carved  canopy  of  the 
same  material ;  and  over  the  tomb,  and 
beneath  the  canopy,  are  two  monumental 
brasses,  such  as  we  oftener  see  inlaid  into 
a  church  pavement.  On  these  brasses  are 
engraved  the  figures  of  a  gentleman  in 
armor,  and  a  lady  in  an  antique  garb,  each 
about  a  foot  high,  devoutly  kneeling  in 
prayer ;  and  there  is  a  long  Latin  inscrip- 


NEAR   OXFORD  303 

tion  likewise  cut  into  the  enduring  brass, 
bestowing  the  highest  eulogies  on  the 
character  of  Anthony  Forster,  who,  with 
his  virtuous  dame,  lies  buried  beneath  this 
tombstone.  His  is  the  knightly  figure  that 
kneels  above ;  and  if  Sir  Walter  Scott 
ever  saw  this  tomb,  he  must  have  had  an 
even  greater  than  common  disbelief  in 
laudatory  epitaphs,  to  venture  on  depicting 
Anthony  Forster  in  such  hues  as  blacken 
him  in  the  romance.  For  my  part,  I  read 
the  inscription  in  full  faith,  and  believe 
the  poor  deceased  gentleman  to  be  a  much- 
wronged  individual,  with  good  grounds  for 
bringing  an  action  of  slander  in  the  courts 
above. 

But  the  circumstance,  lightly  as  we  treat 
it,  has  its  serious  moral.  What  nonsense 
it  is,  this  anxiety,  which  so  worries  us 
about  our  good  fame,  or  our  bad  fame, 
after  death  !  If  it  were  of  the  slightest 
real  moment,  our  reputations  would  have 
been  placed  by  Providence  more  in  our 
own  power,  and  less  in  other  people's,  than 
we  now  find  them  to  be.  If  poor  Anthony 
Forster  happens  to  have  met  Sir  Walter 
in  the  other  world,  I  doubt  whether  he  has 
ever  thought  it  worth  while  to  complain  of 
the  latter's  misrepresentations. 


304  OUR   OLD  HOME 

We  did  not  remain  long  in  the  church, 
as  it  contains  nothing  else  of  interest  ; 
and,  driving  through  the  village,  we  passed 
a  pretty  large  and  rather  antique-looking 
inn,  bearing  the  sign  of  the  Bear  and 
Ragged  Staff.  It  could  not  be  so  old,  how 
ever,  by  at  least  a  hundred  years,  as  Giles 
Gosling's  time  ;  nor  is  there  any  other  ob 
ject  to  remind  the  visitor  of  the  Eliza 
bethan  age,  unless  it  be  a  few  ancient  cot 
tages,  that  are  perhaps  of  still  earlier  date. 
Cumnor  is  not  nearly  so  large  a  village, 
nor  a  place  of  such  mark,  as  one  antici 
pates  from  its  romantic  and  legendary 
fame  ;  but,  being  still  inaccessible  by  rail 
way,  it  has  retained  more  of  a  sylvan  char 
acter  than  we  often  find  in  English  coun 
try  towns.  In  this  retired  neighborhood 
the  road  is  narrow  and  bordered  with 
grass,  and  sometimes  interrupted  by  gates ; 
the  hedges  grow  in  unpruned  luxuriance ; 
there  is  not  that  close-shaven  neatness  and 
trimness  that  characterize  the  ordinary 
English  landscape.  The  whole  scene  con 
veys  the  idea  of  seclusion  and  remoteness. 
We  met  no  travelers,  whether  on  foot  or 
otherwise. 

I  cannot  very  distinctly  trace  out  this 
day's  peregrinations  ;  but,  after  leaving 


NEAR   OXFORD  305 

Cumnor  a  few  miles  behind  us,  I  think  we 
came  to  a  ferry  over  the  Thames,  where 
an  old  woman  served  as  ferryman,  and 
pulled  a  boat  across  by  means  of  a  rope 
stretching  from  shore  to  shore.  Our  two 
vehicles  being  thus  placed  on  the  other 
side,  we  resumed  our  drive,  —  first  glanc 
ing,  however,  at  the  old  woman's  antique 
cottage,  with  its  stone  floor,  and  the  cir 
cular  settle  round  the  kitchen  fireplace, 
which  was  quite  in  the  mediaeval  English 
style. 

We  next  stopped  at  Stanton  Harcourt, 
where  we  were  received  at  the  parsonage 
with  a  hospitality  which  we  should  take 
delight  in  describing,  if  it  were  allowable 
to  make  public  acknowledgment  of  the  pri 
vate  and  personal  kindnesses  which  we 
never  failed  to  find  ready  for  our  needs. 
An  American  in  an  English  house  will 
soon  adopt  the  opinion  that  the  English 
are  the  very  kindest  people  on  earth,  and 
will  retain  that  idea  as  long,  at  least,  as 
he  remains  on  the  inner  side  of  the  thresh 
old.  Their  magnetism  is  of  a  kind  that 
repels  strongly  while  you  keep  beyond  a 
certain  limit,  but  attracts  as  forcibly  if  you 
get  within  the  magic  line. 

It  was  at  this  place,  if  I  remember  right, 


306  OUR   OLD  HOME 

that  I  heard  a  gentleman  ask  a  friend  of 
mine  whether  he  was  the  author  of  "  The 
Red  Letter  A  ; "  and,  after  some  consid 
eration  (for  he  did  not  seem  to  recognize 
his  own  book,  at  first,  under  this  improved 
title),  our  countryman  responded  doubt 
fully,  that  he  believed  so.  The  gentleman 
proceeded  to  inquire  whether  our  friend 
had  spent  much  time  in  America,  —  evi 
dently  thinking  that  he  must  have  been 
caught  young,  and  have  had  a  tincture  of 
English  breeding,  at  least,  if  not  birth,  to 
speak  the  language  so  tolerably,  and  ap 
pear  so  much  like  other  people.  This  in 
sular  narrowness  is  exceedingly  queer,  and 
of  very  frequent  occurrence,  and  is  quite 
as  much  a  characteristic  of  men  of  educa 
tion  and  culture  as  of  clowns. 

Stanton  Harcourt  is  a  very  curious  old 
place.  It  was  formerly  the  seat  of  the  an 
cient  family  of  Harcourt,  which  now  has 
its  principal  abode  at  Nuneham  Courtney, 
a  few  miles  off.  The  parsonage  is  a  relic 
of  the  family  mansion,  or  castle,  other  por 
tions  of  which  are  close  at  hand  ;  for, 
across  the  garden,  rise  two  gray  towers, 
both  of  them  picturesquely  venerable,  and 
interesting  for  more  than  their  antiquity. 
One  of  these  towers,  in  its  entire  capacity, 


NEAR   OXFORD  307 

from  height  to  depth,  constituted  the 
kitchen  of  the  ancient  castle,  and  is  still 
used  for  domestic  purposes,  although  it 
has  not,  nor  ever  had,  a  chimney  ;  or,  we 
might  rather  say,  it  is  itself  one  vast  chim 
ney,  with  a  hearth  of  thirty  feet  square, 
and  a  flue  and  aperture  of  the  same  size. 
There  are  two  huge  fireplaces  within,  and 
the  interior  walls  of  the  tower  are  black 
ened  with  the  smoke  that  for  centuries 
used  to  gush  forth  from  them,  and  climb 
upward,  seeking  an  exit  through  some  wide 
air-holes  in  the  conical  roof,  full  seventy 
feet  above.  These  lofty  openings  were 
capable  of  being  so  arranged,  with  reference 
to  the  wind,  that  the  cooks  are  said  to  have 
been  seldom  troubled  by  the  smoke  ;  and 
here,  no  doubt,  they  were  accustomed  to 
roast  oxen  whole,  with  as  little  fuss  and 
ado  as  a  modern  cook  would  roast  a  fowl. 
The  inside  of  the  tower  is  very  dim  and 
sombre  (being  nothing  but  rough  stone 
walls,  lighted  only  from  the  apertures  above 
mentioned),  and  has  still  a  pungent  odor 
of  smoke  and  soot,  the  reminiscence  of 
the  fires  and  feasts  of  generations  that 
have  passed  away.  Methinks  the  extremest 
range  of  domestic  economy  lies  between 
an  American  cooking-stove  and  the  ancient 


308  OUR   OLD   HOME 

kitchen,   seventy  dizzy  feet   in  height  and 
all  one  fireplace,  of  Stanton  Harcourt. 

Now  —  the  place  being  without  a  parallel 
in  England,  and  therefore  necessarily  be 
yond  the  experience  of  an  American  —  it 
is  somewhat  remarkable  that,  while  we 
stood  gazing  at  this  kitchen,  1  was  haunted 
and  perplexed  by  an  idea  that  somewhere 
or  other  I  had  seen  just  this  strange  spec 
tacle  before.  The  height,  the  blackness, 
the  dismal  void,  before  my  eyes,  seemed  as 
familiar  as  the  decorous  neatness  of  my 
grandmother's  kitchen  ;  only  my  unac 
countable  memory  of  the  scene  was  lighted 
up  with  an  image  of  lurid  fires  blazing  all 
round  the  dim  interior  circuit  of  the  tower. 
I  had  never  before  had  so  pertinacious  an 
attack,  as  I  could  not  but  suppose  it,  of 
that  odd  state  of  mind  wherein  we  fitfully 
and  teasingly  remember  some  previous 
scene  or  incident,  of  which  the  one  now 
passing  appears  to  be  but  the  echo  and 
reduplication.  Though  the  explanation  of 
the  mystery  did  not  for  some  time  occur 
to  me,  I  may  as  well  conclude  the  matter 
here.  In  a  letter  of  Pope's,  addressed 
to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  there  is  an 
account  of  Stanton  Harcourt  (as  I  now 
find,  although  the  name  is  not  mentioned), 


NEAR   OXFORD  309 

where  he  resided  while  translating  a  part 
of  the  "Iliad."  It  is  one  of  the  most  ad 
mirable  pieces  of  description  in  the  lan 
guage,  —  playful  and  picturesque,  with  fine 
touches  of  humorous  pathos,  —  and  con 
veys  as  perfect  a  picture  as  ever  was  drawn 
of  a  decayed  English  country-house  ;  and 
among  other  rooms,  most  of  which  have 
since  crumbled  down  and  disappeared,  he 
dashes  off  the  grim  aspect  of  this  kitchen, — 
which,  moreover,  he  peoples  with  witches, 
engaging  Satan  himself  as  head  cook,  who 
stirs  the  infernal  caldrons  that  seethe  and 
bubble  over  the  fires.  This  letter,  and 
others  relative  to  his  abode  here,  were  very 
familiar  to  my  earlier  reading,  and,  remain 
ing  still  fresh  at  the  bottom  of  my  memory, 
caused  the  weird  and  ghostly  sensation 
that  came  over  me  on  beholding  the  real 
spectacle  that  had  formerly  been  made  so 
vivid  to  my  imagination. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  the  church,  which 
stands  close  by,  and  is  quite  as  ancient  as 
the  remnants  of  the  castle.  In  a  chapel 
or  side  aisle,  dedicated  to  the  Harcourts, 
are  found  some  very  interesting  family 
monuments,  --  and  among  them,  recum 
bent  on  a  tombstone,  the  figure  of  an  armed 
knight  of  the  Lancastrian  party,  who  was 


310  OUR   OLD  HOME 

slain  in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses.  His  fea 
tures,  dress,  and  armor  are  painted  in  col 
ors,  still  wonderfully  fresh,  and  there  still 
blushes  the  symbol  of  the  Red  Rose,  de 
noting  the  faction  for  which  he  fought  and 
died.  His  head  rests  on  a  marble  or  ala 
baster  helmet ;  and  on  the  tomb  lies  the 
veritable  helmet,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
which  he  wore  in  battle,  —  a  ponderous 
iron  case,  with  the  visor  complete,  and 
remnants  of  the  gilding  that  once  covered 
it.  The  crest  is  a  large  peacock,  not  of 
metal,  but  of  wood.  Very  possibly,  this 
helmet  was  but  an  heraldic  adornment  of 
his  tomb  ;  and,  indeed,  it  seems  strange 
that  it  has  not  been  stolen  before  now,  es 
pecially  in  Cromwell's  time,  when  knightly 
tombs  were  little  respected,  and  when  ar 
mor  was  in  request.  However,  it  is  need 
less  to  dispute  with  the  dead  knight  about 
the  identity  of  his  iron  pot,  and  we  may  as 
well  allow  it  to  be  the  very  same  that  so 
often  gave  him  the  headache  in  his  life 
time.  Leaning  against  the  wall,  at  the  foot 
of  the  tomb,  is  the  shaft  of  a  spear,  with  a 
wofully  tattered  and  utterly  faded  banner 
appended  to  it,  —  the  knightly  banner  be 
neath  which  he  marshaled  his  followers  in 
the  field.  As  it  was  absolutely  falling  to 


NEAR   OXFORD  311 

pieces,  I  tore  off  one  little  bit,  no  bigger 
than  a  finger-nail,  and  put  it  into  my  waist 
coat  pocket ;  but  seeking  it  subsequently, 
it  was  not  to  be  found. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  little  chapel, 
two  or  three  yards  from  this  tomb,  is  an 
other  monument,  on  which  lie,  side  by  side, 
one  of  the  same  knightly  race  of  Harcourts 
and  his  lady.  The  tradition  of  the  family 
is,  that  this  knight  was  the  standard-bearer 
of  Henry  of  Richmond  in  the  Battle  of 
Bosworth  Field ;  and  a  banner,  supposed 
to  be  the  same  that  he  carried,  now  droops 
over  his  effigy.  It  is  just  such  a  colorless 
silk  rag  as  the  one  already  described.  The 
knight  has  the  order  of  the  Garter  on  his 
knee,  and  the  lady  wears  it  on  her  left 
arm,  —  an  odd  place  enough  for  a  garter ; 
but,  if  worn  in  its  proper  locality,  it  could 
not  be  decorously  visible.  The  complete 
preservation  and  good  condition  of  these 
statues,  even  to  the  minutest  adornment 
of  the  sculpture,  and  their  very  noses,  - 
the  most  vulnerable  part  of  a  marble  man, 
as  of  a  living  one,  —  are  miraculous.  Ex 
cept  in  Westminster  Abbey,  among  the 
chapels  of  the  kings,  I  have  seen  none  so 
well  preserved.  Perhaps  they  owe  it  to 
the  loyalty  of  Oxfordshire,  diffused  through- 


312  OUR   OLD   HOME 

out  its  neighborhood  by  the  influence  of 
the  University,  during  the  great  Civil  War 
and  the  rule  of  the  Parliament.  It  speaks 
well,  too,  for  the  upright  and  kindly  char 
acter  of  this  old  family,  that  the  peasantry, 
among  whom  they  had  lived  for  ages,  did 
not  desecrate  their  tombs,  when  it  might 
have  been  done  with  impunity. 

There  are  other  and  more  recent  memo 
rials  of  the  Harcourts,  one  of  which  is  the 
tomb  of  the  last  lord,  who  died  about  a 
hundred  years  ago.  His  figure,  like  those 
of  his  ancestors,  lies  on  the  top  of  his  tomb, 
clad,  not  in  armor,  but  in  his  robes  as  a 
peer.  The  title  is  now  extinct,  but  the 
family  survives  in  a  younger  branch,  and 
still  holds  this  patrimonial  estate,  though 
they  have  long  since  quitted  it  as  a  resi 
dence. 

We  next  went  to  see  the  ancient  fish 
ponds  appertaining  to  the  mansion,  and 
which  used  to  be  of  vast  dietary  importance 
to  the  family  in  Catholic  times,  and  when 
fish  was  not  otherwise  attainable.  There 
are  two  or  three,  or  more,  of  these  reser 
voirs,  one  of  which  is  of  very  respectable 
size,  —  large  enough,  indeed,  to  be  really 
a  picturesque  object,  with  its  grass-green 
borders,  and  the  trees  drooping  over  it,  and 


NEAR  OXFORD  313 

the  towers  of  the  castle  and  the  church 
reflected  within  the  weed-grown  depths  of 
its  smooth  mirror.  A  sweet  fragrance,  as 
it  were,  of  ancient  time  and  present  quiet 
and  seclusion  was  breathing  all  around  ; 
the  sunshine  of  to-day  had  a  mellow  charm 
of  antiquity  in  its  brightness.  These 
ponds  are  said  still  to  breed  abundance  of 
such  fish  as  love  deep  and  quiet  waters  ; 
but  I  saw  only  some  minnows,  and  one  or 
two  snakes,  which  were  lying  among  the 
weeds  on  the  top  of  the  water,  sunning  and 
bathing  themselves  at  once. 

I  mentioned  that  there  were  two  towers 
remaining  of  the  old  castle  :  the  one  con 
taining  the  kitchen  we  have  already  visited  ; 
the  other,  still  more  interesting,  is  next  to 
be  described.  It  is  some  seventy  feet  high, 
gray  and  reverend,  but  in  excellent  repair, 
though  I  could  not  perceive  that  anything 
had  been  done  to  renovate  it.  The  base 
ment  story  was  once  the  family  chapel,  and 
is,  of  course,  still  a  consecrated  spot.  At 
one  corner  of  the  tower  is  a  circular  turret, 
within  which  a  narrow  staircase,  with  worn 
steps  of  stone,  winds  round  and  round  as 
it  climbs  upward,  giving  access  to  a  cham 
ber  on  each  floor,  and  finally  emerging  on 
the  battlemented  roof.  Ascending  this 


314  OUR   OLD  HOME 

turret  stair,  and  arriving  at  the  third  story, 
we  entered  a  chamber,  not  large,  though 
occupying  the  whole  area  of  the  tower,  and 
lighted  by  a  window  on  each  side.  It  was 
wainscoted  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  dark 
oak,  and  had  a  little  fireplace  in  one  of  the 
corners.  The  window-panes  were  small 
and  set  in  lead.  The  curiosity  of  this 
room  is,  that  it  was  once  the  residence  of 
Pope,  and  that  he  here  wrote  a  considerable 
part  of  the  translation  of  Homer,  and  like 
wise,  no  doubt,  the  admirable  letters  to 
which  I  have  referred  above.  The  room 
once  contained  a  record  by  himself, 
scratched  with  a  diamond  on  one  of  the 
window-panes  (since  removed  for  safe 
keeping  to  Nuneham  Courtney,  where  it 
was  shown  me),  purporting  that  he  had 
here  finished  the  fifth  book  of  the  "  Iliad  " 
on  such  a  day. 

A  poet  has  a  fragrance  about  him,  such 
as  no  other  human  being  is  gifted  withal ; 
it  is  indestructible,  and  clings  forevermore 
to  everything  that  he  has  touched.  I  was 
not  impressed,  at  Blenheim,  with  any  sense 
that  the  mighty  Duke  still  haunted  the 
palace  that  was  created  for  him  ;  but  here, 
after  a  century  and  a  half,  we  are  still 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  that  decrepit 


NEAR   OXFORD  315 

little  figure  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  although 
he  was  merely  a  casual  guest  in  the  old 
tower,  during  one  or  two  summer  months. 
However  brief  the  time  and  slight  the 
connection,  his  spirit  cannot  be  exorcised 
so  long  as  the  tower  stands.  In  my  mind, 
moreover,  Pope,  or  any  other  person  with 
an  available  claim,  is  right  in  adhering  to 
the  spot,  dead  or  alive ;  for  I  never  saw  a 
chamber  that  I  should  like  better  to  in 
habit,  —  so  comfortably  small,  in  such  a 
safe  and  inaccessible  seclusion,  and  with  a 
varied  landscape  from  each  window.  One 
of  them  looks  upon  the  church,  close  at 
hand,  and  down  into  the  green  churchyard, 
extending  almost  to  the  foot  of  the  tower ; 
the  others  have  views  wide  and  far,  over  a 
gently  undulating  tract  of  country.  If 
desirous  of  a  loftier  elevation,  about  a 
dozen  more  steps  of  the  turret  stair  will 
bring  the  occupant  to  the  summit  of  the 
tower,  —  where  Pope  used  to  come,  no 
doubt,  in  the  summer  evenings,  and  peep — 
poor  little  shrimp  that  he  was!  —  through 
the  embrasures  of  the  battlement. 

From  Stanton  Harcourt  we  drove  —  I 
forget  how  far  —  to  a  point  where  a  boat 
was  waiting  for  us  upon  the  Thames,  or 
some  other  stream ;  for  I  am  ashamed  to 


316  OUR   OLD   HOME 

confess  my  ignorance  of  the  precise  geo 
graphical  whereabout.  We  were,  at  any 
rate,  some  miles  above  Oxford,  and,  I  should 
imagine,  pretty  near  one  of  the  sources  of 
England's  mighty  river.  It  was  little  more 
than  wide  enough  for  the  boat,  with  ex 
tended  oars,  tc  pass,  —  shallow,  too,  and 
bordered  with  bulrushes  and  water-weeds, 
which,  in  some  places,  quite  overgrew  the 
surface  of  the  river  from  bank  to  bank. 
The  shores  were  flat  and  meadow-like,  and 
sometimes,  the  boatman  told  us,  are  over 
flowed  by  the  rise  of  the  stream.  The 
water  looked  clean  and  pure,  but  not  partic 
ularly  transparent,  though  enough  so  to 
show  us  that  the  bottom  is  very  much 
weed-grown ;  and  I  was  told  that  the  weed 
is  an  American  production,  brought  to 
England  with  importations  of  timber,  and 
now  threatening  to  choke  up  the  Thames 
and  other  English  rivers.  I  wonder  it  does 
not  try  its  obstructive  powers  upon  the 
Merrimack,  the  Connecticut,  or  the  Hud 
son,  —  not  to  speak  of  the  St.  Lawrence  or 
the  Mississippi ! 

It  was  an  open  boat,  with  cushioned 
seats  astern,  comfortably  accommodating 
our  party  ;  the  day  continued  sunny  and 
warm,  and  perfectly  still ;  the  boatman, 


NEAR   OXFORD  317 

well  trained  to  his  business,  managed  the 
oars  skillfully  and  vigorously  :  and  we  went 
down  the  stream  quite  as  swiftly  as  it  was 
desirable  to  go,  the  scene  being  so  pleas 
ant,  and  the  passing  hours  so  thoroughly 
agreeable.  The  river  grew  a  little  wider 
and  deeper,  perhaps,  as  we  glided  on,  but 
was  still  an  inconsiderable  stream  :  for  it 
had  a  good  deal  more  than  a  hundred  miles 
to  meander  through  before  it  should  bear 
fleets  on  its  bosom,  and  reflect  palaces  and 
towers  and  Parliament  houses  and  dingy 
and  sordid  piles  of  various  structure,  as  it 
rolled  to  and  fro  with  the  tide,  dividing 
London  asunder.  Not,  in  truth,  that  T  ever 
saw  any  edifice  whatever  reflected  in  its 
turbid  breast,  when  the  sylvan  stream,  as 
we  beheld  it  now,  is  swollen  into  the 
Thames  at  London. 

Once,  on  our  voyage,  we  had  to  land, 
while  the  boatman  and  some  other  persons 
drew  our  skiff  round  some  rapids,  which 
we  could  not  otherwise  have  passed  ;  an 
other  time,  the  boat  went  through  a  lock. 
We,  meanwhile,  stepped  ashore  to  examine 
the  ruins  of  the  old  nunnery  of  Godstowe, 
where  Fair  Rosamond  secluded  herself, 
after  being  separated  from  her  royal  lover. 
There  is  a  long  line  of  ruinous  wall,  and  a 


OUR   OLD  HOME 

shattered  tower  at  one  of  the  angles  ;  the 
whole  much  ivy-grown,  —  brimming  over, 
indeed,  with  clustering  ivy,  which  is  rooted 
inside  of  the  walls.  The  nunnery  is  now, 
I  believe,  held  in  lease  by  the  city  of  Ox 
ford,  which  has  converted  its  precincts  into 
a  barnyard.  The  gate  was  under  lock  and 
key,  so  that  we  could  merely  look  at  the 
outside,  and  soon  resumed  our  places  in 
the  boat. 

At  three  o'clock  or  thereabouts  (or 
sooner  or  later,  —  for  I  took  little  heed  of 
time,  and  only  wished  that  these  delightful 
wanderings  might  last  forever)  we  reached 
Folly  Bridge,  at  Oxford.  Here  we  took  pos 
session  of  a  spacious  barge,  with  a  house  in 
it,  and  a  comfortable  dining-room  or  draw 
ing-room  within  the  house,  and  a  level  roof, 
on  which  we  could  sit  at  ease,  or  dance  if 
so  inclined.  These  barges  are  common  at 
Oxford,  —  some  very  splendid  ones  being 
owned  by  the  students  of  the  different  col 
leges,  or  by  clubs.  They  are  drawn  by 
horses,  like  canal-boats  ;  and  a  horse  be 
ing  attached  to  our  own  barge,  he  trotted 
off  at  a  reasonable  pace,  and  we  slipped 
through  the  water  behind  him,  with  a 
gentle  and  pleasant  motion,  which,  save 
for  the  constant  vicissitude  of  cultivated 


NEAR   OXFORD  319 

scenery,  was  like  no  motion  at  all.  It  was 
life  without  the  trouble  of  living ;  nothing 
was  ever  more  quietly  agreeable.  In  this 
happy  state  of  mind  and  body  we  gazed  at 
Christ  Church  meadows,  as  we  passed, 
and  at  the  receding  spires  and  towers  of 
Oxford,  and  on  a  good  deal  of  pleasant  va 
riety  along  the  banks  :  young  men  rowing 
or  fishing ;  troops  of  naked  boys  bathing, 
as  if  this  were  Arcadia,  in  the  simplicity 
of  the  Golden  Age  ;  country-houses,  cot 
tages,  water-side  inns,  all  with  something 
fresh  about  them,  as  not  being  sprinkled 
with  the  dust  of  the  highway.  We  were  a 
large  party  now  ;  for  a  number  of  addi 
tional  guests  had  joined  us  at  Folly  Bridge, 
and  we  comprised  poets,  novelists,  scholars, 
sculptors,  painters,  architects,  men  and 
women  of  renown,  dear  friends,  genial,  out 
spoken,  open  -  hearted  Englishmen,  —  all 
voyaging  onward  together,  like  the  wise 
ones  of  Gotham  in  a  bowl.  I  remember 
not  a  single  annoyance,  except,  indeed, 
that  a  swarm  of  wasps  came  aboard  of  us 
and  alighted  on  the  head  of  one  of  our 
young  gentlemen,  attracted  by  the  scent  of 
the  pomatum  which  he  had  been  rubbing 
into  his  hair.  He  was  the  only  victim,  and 
his  small  trouble  the  one  little  flaw  in  our 


320  OUR   OLD  HOME 

day's  felicity,  to  put  us  in  mind  that  we 
were  mortal. 

Meanwhile,  a  table  had  been  laid  in  the 
interior  of  our  barge,  and  spread  with  cold 
ham,  cold  fowl,  cold  pigeon-pie,  cold  beef, 
and  other  substantial  cheer,  such  as  the 
English  love,  and  Yankees  too,  —  besides 
tarts,  and  cakes,  and  pears,  and  plums,. — 
not  forgetting,  of  course,  a  goodly  provi 
sion  of  port,  sherry,  and  champagne,  and 
bitter  ale,  which  is  like  mother's  milk  to 
an  Englishman,  and  soon  grows  equally 
acceptable  to  his  American  cousin.  By  the 
time  these  matters  had  been  properly  at 
tended  to,  we  had  arrived  at  that  part  of 
the  Thames  which  passes  by  Nuneham 
Courtney,  a  fine  estate  belonging  to  the 
Harcourts,  and  the  present  residence  of 
the  family.  Here  we  landed,  and,  climb 
ing  a  steep  slope  from  the  river -side, 
paused  a  moment  or  two  to  look  at  an  ar 
chitectural  object,  called  the  Carfax,  the 
purport  of  which  I  do  not  well  understand. 
Thence  we  proceeded  onward,  through  the 
loveliest  park  and  woodland  scenery  I  ever 
saw,  and  under  as  beautiful  a  declining 
sunshine  as  heaven  ever  shed  over  earth, 
to  the  stately  mansion-house. 

As  we  here   cross  a  private  threshold, 


NEAR   OXFORD  $21 

it  is  not  allowable  to  pursue  my  feeble  nar 
rative  o,f  this  delightful  day  with  the  same 
freedom  as  heretofore ;  so,  perhaps,  I  may 
as  well  bring  it  to  a  close.  I  may  mention, 
however,  that  I  saw  the  library,  a  fine, 
large  apartment,  hung  round  with  portraits 
of  eminent  literary  men,  principally  of  the 
last  century,  most  of  whom  were  familiar 
guests  of  the  Harcourts.  The  house  it 
self  is  about  eighty  years  old,  and  is  built 
in  the  classic  style,  as  if  the  family  had  been 
anxious  to  diverge  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  Gothic  picturesqueness  of  their  old 
abode  at  Stanton  Harcourt.  The  grounds 
were  laid  out  in  part  by  Capability  Brown, 
and  seemed  to  me  even  more  beautiful 
than  those  of  Blenheim.  Mason  the  poet, 
a  friend  of  the  house,  gave  the  design  of  a 
portion  of  the  garden.  Of  the  whole  place 
I  will  not  be  niggardly  of  my  rude  Trans 
atlantic  praise,  but  be  bold  to  say  that  it 
appeared  to  rne  as  perfect  as  anything 
earthly  can  be,  —  utterly  and  entirely  fin 
ished,  as  if  the  years  and  generations  had 
done  all  that  the  hearts  and  minds  of  the 
successive  owners  could  contrive  for  a  spot 
they  dearly  loved.  Such  homes  as  Nune- 
ham  Courtney  are  among  the  splendid 
results  of  long  hereditary  possession ;  and 


322  OUR   OLD   HOME 

we  Republicans,  whose  households  melt 
away  like  new-fallen  snow  in  a  spring  morn 
ing,  must  content  ourselves  with  our  many 
counterbalancing  advantages,  — -  for  this 
one,  so  apparently  desirable  to  the  far-pro 
jecting  selfishness  of  our  nature,  we  are 
certain  never  to  attain. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  nevertheless, 
that  Nuneham  Courtney  is  one  of  the  great 
show-places  of  England.  It  is  merely  a 
fair  specimen  of  the  better  class  of  coun 
try-seats,  and  has  a  hundred  rivals,  and 
many  superiors,  in  the  features  of  beauty, 
and  expansive,  manifold,  redundant  com 
fort,  which  most  impressed  me.  A  moder 
ate  man  might  be  content  with  such  a 
home,  —  that  is  all. 

And  now  I  take  leave  of  Oxford  without 
even  an  attempt  to  describe  it,  —  there  be 
ing  no  literary  faculty,  attainable  or  con 
ceivable  by  me,  which  can  avail  to  put  it 
adequately,  or  even  tolerably,  upon  paper. 
It  must  remain  its  own  sole  expression  ; 
and  those  whose  sad  fortune  it  may  be 
never  to  behold  it  have  no  better  resource 
than  to  dream  about  gray,  weather-stained, 
ivy -grown  edifices,  wrought  with  quaint 
Gothic  ornament,  and  standing  around 
grassy  quadrangles,  where  cloistered  walks 


NEAR   OXFORD  323 

nave  echoed  to  the  quiet  footsteps  of 
twenty  generations,  —  lawns  and  gardens 
of  luxurious  repose,  shadowed  with  cano 
pies  of  foliage,  and  lit  up  with  sunny 
glimpses  through  archways  of  great  boughs, 

—  spires,  towers,  and  turrets,  each  with  its 
history  and  legend,  —  dimly  magnificent 
chapels,    with     painted    windows    of    rare 
beauty    and    brilliantly    diversified    hues, 
creating  an  atmosphere  of  richest  gloom, 
— vast  college  halls,  high-windowed,  oaken- 
paneled,  and  hung  round  with  portraits  of 
the  men,  in  every  age,  whom  the   univer 
sity  has  nurtured  to  be  illustrious,  —  long 
vistas  of  alcoved  libraries,  where  the  wis 
dom  and  learned  folly  of  all  time  is  shelved, 

—  kitchens   (we  throw  in  this  feature  by 
way  of  ballast,  and  because  it  would  not  be 
English  Oxford  without  its  beef  and  beer), 
with  huge  fireplaces,  capable  of  roasting  a 
hundred  joints   at   once,  —  and  cavernous 
cellars,  where  rows  of   piled-up  hogsheads 
seethe  and   fume    with  that  mighty  malt- 
liquor   which    is   the   true   milk   of   Alma 
Mater  :  make  all  these  things  vivid  in  your 
dream,  and  you  will  never  know  nor  be 
lieve  how  inadequate  is  the  result  to  repre 
sent  even  the  merest  outside  of  Oxford. 

We  feel  a  genuine  reluctance  to  conclude 


324  OUR   OLD  HOME 

this  article  without  making  our  grateful 
acknowledgments,  by  name,  to  a  gentleman 
whose  overflowing  kindness  was  the  main 
condition  of  all  our  sight-seeings  and  enjoy 
ments.  Delightful  as  will  always  be  our 
recollection  of  Oxford  and  its  neighborhood, 
we  partly  suspect  that  it  owes  much  of 
its  happy  coloring  to  the  genial  medium 
through  which  the  objects  were  presented 
to  us, — to  the  kindly  magic  of  a  hospitality 
unsurpassed,  within  our  experience,  in  the 
quality  of  making  the  guest  contented  with 
his  host,  with  himself,  and  everything  about 
him.  He  has  inseparably  mingled  his  image 
with  our  remembrance  of  the  Spires  of 
Oxford. 


VIII. 
SOME   OF   THE    HAUNTS    OF    BURNS 

WE  left  Carlisle  at  a  little  past  eleven, 
and  within  the  half  hour  were  at  Gretna 
Green.  Thence  we  rushed  onward  into 
Scotland  through  a  flat  and  dreary  tract  of 
country,  consisting  mainly  of  desert  and 
bog,  where  probably  the  moss-troopers  were 
accustomed  to  take  refuge  after  their  raids 
into  England.  Anon,  however,  the  hills 
hove  themselves  up  to  view,  occasionally 
attaining  a  height  which  might  almost  be 
called  mountainous.  In  about  two  hours 
we  reached  Dumfries,  and  alighted  at  the 
station  there. 

Chill  as  the  Scottish  summer  is  reputed 
to  be,  we  found  it  an  awfully  hot  day,  not 
a  whit  less  so  than  the  day  before  ;  but  we 
sturdily  adventured  through  the  burning 
sunshine  up  into  the  town,  inquiring  our 
way  to  the  residence  of  Burns.  The  street 
leading  from  the  station  is  called  Shake 
speare  Street ;  and  at  its  farther  extremity 
we  read  "  Burns  Street "  on  a  corner-house, 


326  OUR   OLD   HOME 

—  the  avenue  thus  designated  having  been 
formerly  known  as  "  Mill-Hole  Brae."  It 
is  a  vile  lane,  paved  with  small,  hard  stones 
from  side  to  side,  and  bordered  by  cottages 
or  mean  houses  of  whitewashed  stone,  join 
ing  one  to  another  along  the  whole  length 
of  the  street.  With  not  a  tree,  of  course, 
or  a  blade  of  grass  between  the  paving- 
stones,  the  narrow  lane  was  as  hot  as 
Tophet,  and  reeked  with  a  genuine  Scotch 
odor,  being  infested  with  unwashed  chil 
dren,  and  altogether  in  a  state  of  chronic 
filth ;  although  some  women  seemed  to  be 
hopelessly  scrubbing  the  thresholds  of  their 
wretched  dwellings.  I  never  saw  an  out- 
skirt  of  a  town  less  fit  for  a  poet's  residence, 
or  in  which  it  would  be  more  miserable  for 
any  man  of  cleanly  predilections  to  spend 
his  days. 

We  asked  for  Burns's  dwelling ;  and  a 
woman  pointed  across  the  street  to  a  two- 
story  house,  built  of  stone,  and  white 
washed,  like  its  neighbors,  but  perhaps  of  a 
little  more  respectable  aspect  than  most  of 
them,  though  I  hesitate  in  saying  so.  It 
was  not  a  separate  structure,  but  under  the 
same  continuous  roof  with  the  next.  There 
was  an  inscription  on  the  door,  bearing  no 
reference  to  Burns,  but  indicating  that  the 


SOME    OF   THE   HAUNTS   OF  BURNS    327 

house  was  now  occupied  by  a  ragged  or 
industrial  school.  On  knocking,  we  were 
instantly  admitted  by  a  servant-girl,  who 
smiled  intelligently  when  we  told  our  er 
rand,  and  showed  us  into  a  low  and  very 
plain  parlor,  not  more  than  twelve  or  fifteen 
feet  square.  A  young  woman,  who  seemed 
to  be  a  teacher  in  the  school,  soon  ap 
peared,  and  told  us  that  this  had  been 
Burns' s  usual  sitting-room,  and  that  he  had 
written  many  of  his  songs  here. 

She  then  led  us  up  a  narrow  staircase 
into  a  little  bedchamber  over  the  parlor. 
Connecting  with  it,  there  is  a  very  small 
room,  or  windowed  closet,  which  Burns 
used  as  a  study  ;  and  the  bedchamber  itself 
was  the  one  where  he  slept  in  his  later 
lifetime,  and  in  which  he  died  at  last. 
Altogether,  it  is  an  exceedingly  unsuitable 
place  for  a  pastoral  and  rural  poet  to  live 
or  die  in,  —  even  more  unsatisfactory  than 
Shakespeare's  house,  which  has  a  certain 
homely  picturesqueness  that  contrasts  fa 
vorably  with  the  suburban  sordidness  of 
the  abode  before  us.  The  narrow  lane, 
the  paving-stones,  and  the  contiguity  of 
wretched  hovels  are  depressing  to  remem 
ber  ;  and  the  steam  of  them  (such  is  our 
human  weakness)  might  almost  make  the 
poet's  memory  less  fragrant. 


328  OUR   OLD   HOME 

As  already  observed,  it  was  an  intoler 
ably  hot  day.  After  leaving  the  house, 
we  found  our  way  into  the  principal  street 
of  the  town,  which,  it  may  be  fair  to  say,  is 
of  very  different  aspect  from  the  wretched 
outskirt  above  described.  Entering  a  hotel 
(in  which,  as  a  Dumfries  guide-book  as 
sured  us,  Prince  Charles  Edward  had  once 
spent  a  night),  we  rested  and  refreshed 
ourselves,  and  then  set  forth  in  quest  of 
the  mausoleum  of  Burns. 

Coming  to  St.  Michael's  Church,  we  saw 
a  man  digging  a  grave,  and,  scrambling  out 
of  the  hole,  he  let  us  into  the  churchyard, 
which  was  crowded  full  of  monuments. 
Their  general  shape  and  construction  are 
peculiar  to  Scotland,  being  a  perpendicular 
tablet  of  marble  or  other  stone,  within  a 
framework  of  the  same  material,  somewhat 
resembling  the  frame  of  a  looking-glass  ; 
and,  all  over  the  churchyard,  these  sepul 
chral  memorials  rise  to  the  height  of  ten, 
fifteen,  or  twenty  feet,  forming  quite  an 
imposing  collection  of  monuments,  but  in 
scribed  with  names  of  small  general  signi 
ficance.  It  was  easy,  indeed,  to  ascertain 
the  rank  of  those  who  slept  below ;  for  in 
Scotland  it  is  the  custom  to  put  the  occupa 
tion  of  the  buried  personage  (as  "  Skin- 


SOME   OF   THE  HAUNTS   OF  BURNS    329 

ner,"  "Shoemaker,"  "  Flesher ")  on  his 
tombstone.  As  another  peculiarity,  wives 
are  buried  under  their  maiden  names,  in 
stead  of  those  of  their  husbands,  thus  giv 
ing  a  disagreeable  impression  that  the  mar 
ried  pair  have  bidden  each  other  an  eternal 
farewell  on  the  edge  of  the  grave. 

There  was  a  foot-path  through  this  crowd 
ed  churchyard,  sufficiently  well  worn  'to 
guide  us  to  the  grave  of  Burns  ;  but  a 
woman  followed  behind  us,  who,  it  ap 
peared  kept  the  key  of  the  mausoleum, 
and  was  privileged  to  show  it  to  strangers. 
The  monument  is  a  sort  of  Grecian  temple, 
with  pilasters  and  a  dome,  covering  a  space 
of  about  twenty  feet  square.  It  was  for 
merly  open  to  all  the  inclemencies  of  the 
Scotch  atmosphere,  but  is  now  protected 
and  shut  in  by  large  squares  of  rough 
glass,  each  pane  being  of  the  size  of  one 
whole  side  of  the  structure.  The  woman 
unlocked  the  door,  and  admitted  us  into 
the  interior.  Inlaid  into  the  floor  of  the 
mausoleum  is  the  gravestone  of  Burns, — 
the  very  same  that  was  laid  over  his  grave 
by  Jean  Armour,  before  this  monument 
was  built.  Displayed  against  the  surround 
ing  wall  is  a  marble  statue  of  Burns  at  the 
plough,  with  the  Genius  of  Caledonia  sum- 


330  OUR   OLD   HOME 

moning  the  ploughman  to  turn  poet.  Me- 
thought  it  was  not  a  very  successful  piece 
of  work  ;  for  the  plough  was  better  sculp 
tured  than  the  man,  and  the  man,  though 
heavy  and  cloddish,  was  more  effective 
than  the  goddess.  Our  guide  informed  us 
that  an  old  man  of  ninety,  who  knew 
Burns,  certifies  this  statue  to  be  very  like 
the  original. 

The  bones  of  the  poet,  and  of  Jean 
Armour,  and  of  some  of  their  children,  lie 
in  the  vault  over  which  we  stood.  Our  guide 
(who  was  intelligent,  in  her  own  plain  way, 
and  very  agreeable  to  talk  withal)  said 
that  the  vault  was  opened  about  three 
weeks  ago,  on  occasion  of  the  burial  of 
the  eldest  son  of  Burns.  The  poet's  bones 
were  disturbed,  and  the  dry  skull,  once  so 
brimming  over  with  powerful  thought  and 
bright  and  tender  fantasies,  was  taken 
away,  and  kept  for  several  days  by  a  Dum 
fries  doctor.  It  has  since  been  deposited 
in  a  new  leaden  coffin,  and  restored  to  the 
vault.  We  learned  that  there  is  a  surviv 
ing  daughter  of  Burns's  eldest  son,  and 
daughters  likewise  of  the  two  younger 
sons,  —  and,  besides  these,  an  illegitimate 
posterity  by  the  eldest  son,  who  appears 
to  have  been  of  disreputable  life  in  his 


SOME   OF   THE   HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    331 

younger  days.  He  inherited  his  father's 
failings,  with  some  faint  shadow,  I  have 
also  understood,  of  the  great  qualities 
which  have  made  the  world  tender  of  his 
father's  vices  and  weaknesses. 

We  listened  readily  enough  to  this  paltry 
gossip,  but  found  that  it  robbed  the  poet's 
memory  of  some  of  the  reverence  that  was 
its  due.  Indeed,  this  talk  over  his  grave 
had  very  much  the  same  tendency  and  ef 
fect  as  the  home-scene  of  his  life,  which 
we  had  been  visiting  just  previously.  Be 
holding  his  poor,  mean  dwelling  and  its 
surroundings,  and  picturing  his  outward 
life  and  earthly  manifestations  from  these, 
one  does  not  so  much  wonder  that  the 
people  of  that  day  should  have  failed  to 
recognize  all  that  was  admirable  and  im 
mortal  in  a  disreputable,  drunken,  shabbily 
clothed,  and  shabbily  housed  man,  consort 
ing  with  associates  of  damaged  character, 
and,  as  his  only  ostensible  occupation, 
gauging  the  whiskey,  which  he  too  often 
tasted.  Siding  with  Burns,  as  we  needs 
must,  in  his  plea  against  the  world,  let  us 
try  to  do  the  world  a  little  justice  too.  It 
is  far  easier  to  know  and  honor  a  poet 
when  his  fame  has  taken  shape  in  the 
spotlessness  of  marble  than  when  the  ac- 


332  OUR   OLD  HOME 

tual  man  comes  staggering  before  you,  be 
smeared  with  the  sordid  stains  of  his  daily 
life.  For  my  part,  I  chiefly  wonder  that 
his  recognition  dawned  so  brightly  while 
he  was  still  living.  There  must  have  been 
something  very  grand  in  his  immediate 
presence,  some  strangely  impressive  char 
acteristic  in  his  natural  behavior,  to  have 
caused  him  to  seem  like  a  demigod  so 
soon. 

As  we  went  back  through  the  church 
yard,  we  saw  a  spot  where  nearly  four  hun 
dred  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  were  buried 
during  the  cholera  year ;  and  also  some 
curious  old  monuments,  with  raised  letters, 
the  inscriptions  on  which  were  not  suffi 
ciently  legible  to  induce  us  to  puzzle  them 
out ;  but,  I  believe,  they  mark  the  resting- 
places  of  old  Covenanters,  some  of  whom 
were  killed  by  Claverhouse  and  his  fellow- 
ruffians. 

St.  Michael's  Church  is  of  red  freestone, 
and  was  built  about  a  hundred  years  ago, 
on  an  old  Catholic  foundation.  Our  guide 
admitted  us  into  it,  and  showed  us,  in  the 
porch,  a  very  pretty  little  marble  figure 
of  a  child  asleep,  with  a  drapery  over  the 
lower  part,  from  beneath  which  appeared 
its  two  baby  feet.  It  was  truly  a  sweet 


SOME   OF   THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    333 

little  statue  ;  and  the  woman  told  us  that 
it  represented  a  child  of  the  sculptor,  and 
that  the  baby  (here  still  in  its  marble  in 
fancy)  had  died  more  than  twenty-six  years 
ago.  "  Many  ladies,"  she  said,  "  especially 
such  as  had  ever  lost  a  child,  had  shed 
tears  over  it."  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
think  of  the  sculptor  bestowing  the  best  of 
his  genius  and  art  to  re-create  his  tender 
child  in  stone,  and  to  make  the  representa 
tion  as  soft  and  sweet  as  the  original ;  but 
the  conclusion  of  the  story  has  something 
that  jars  with  our  awakened  sensibilities. 
A  gentleman  from  London  had  seen  the 
statue,  and  was  so  much  delighted  with  it 
that  he  bought  it  of  the  father-artist,  after 
it  had  lain  above  a  quarter  of  a  century  in 
the  church-porch.  So  this  was  not  the 
real,  tender  image  that  came  out  of  the 
father's  heart ;  he  had  sold  that  truest  one 
for  a  hundred  guineas,  and  sculptured  this 
mere  copy  to  replace  it.  The  first  figure 
was  entirely  naked  in  its  earthly  and  spir 
itual  innocence.  The  copy,  as  I  have  said 
above,  has  a  drapery  over  the  lower  limbs. 
But,  after  all,  if  we  come  to  the  truth  of 
the  matter,  the  sleeping  baby  may  be  as 
fitly  reposited  in  the  drawing-room  of  a 
connoisseur  as  in  a  cold  and  dreary  church- 
porch. 


334 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


We  went  into  the  church,  and  found  it 
very  plain  and  naked,  without  altar  deco 
rations,  and .  having  its  floor  quite  covered 
with  unsightly  wooden  pews.  The  woman 
led  us  to  a  pew,  cornering  on  one  of  the 
side  aisles,  and,  telling  us  that  it  used  to  be 
Burns's  family  pew,  showed  us  his  seat, 
which  is  in  the  corner  by  the  aisle.  It  is 
so  situated,  that  a  sturdy  pillar  hid  him 
from  the  pulpit,  and  from  the  minister's 
eye ;  "  for  Robin  was  no  great  friends  with 
the  ministers,"  said  she.  This  touch  —  his 
seat  behind  the  pillar,  and  Burns  himself 
nodding  in  sermon-time,  or  keenly  obser 
vant  of  profane  things  —  brought  him  be 
fore  us  to  the  life.  In  the  corner- seat  of 
the  next  pew,  right  before  Burns,  and  not 
more  than  two  feet  off,  sat  the  young  lady 
on  whom  the  poet  saw  that  unmention 
able  parasite,  which  he  has  immortalized 
in  song.  We  were  ungenerous  enough  to 
ask  the  lady's  name,  but  the  good  woman 
could  not  tell  it.  This  was  the  last  thing 
which  we  saw  in  Dumfries  worthy  of  record; 
and  it  ought  to  be  noted  that  our  guide  re 
fused  some  money  which  my  companion 
offered  her,  because  I  had  already  paid  her 
what  she  deemed  sufficient. 

At   the   railway-station    we  spent  more 


ROBERT    BURNS 


SOME   OF   THE   HAUNTS   OF  BURNS    335 

than  a  weary  hour,  waiting  for  the  train, 
which  at  last  came  up,  and  took  us  to 
Mauchline.  We  got  into  an  omnibus,  the 
only  conveyance  to  be  had,  and  drove  about 
a  mile  to  the  village,  where  we  established 
ourselves  at  the  Loudoun  Hotel,  one  of 
the  veriest  country  inns  which  we  have 
found  in  Great  Britain.  The  town  of 
Mauchline,  a  place  more  redolent  of  Burns 
than  almost  any  other,  consists  of  a  street 
or  two  of  contiguous  cottages,  mostly  white 
washed,  and  with  thatched  roofs.  It  has 
nothing  sylvan  or  rural  in  the  immediate 
village,  and  is  as  ugly  a  place  as  mortal  man 
could  contrive  to  make,  or  to  render  uglier 
through  a  succession  of  untidy  generations. 
The  fashion  of  paving  the  village  street,  and 
patching  one  shabby  house  on  the  gable- 
end  of  another,  quite  shuts  out  all  verdure 
and  pleasantness  ;  but,  I  presume,  we  are 
not  likely  to  see  a  more  genuine  old  Scotch 
village,  such  as  they  used  to  be  in  Burns's 
time,  and  long  before,  than  this  of  Mauch 
line.  The  church  stands  about  midway  up 
the  street,  and  is  built  of  red  freestone, 
very  simple  in  its  architecture,  with  a  square 
tower  and  pinnacles.  In  this  sacred  edifice, 
and  its  churchyard,  was  the  scene  of  one 
of  Burns's  most  characteristic  productions, 
"The  Holy  Fair." 


33'6  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Almost  directly  opposite  its  gate,  across 
the  village  street,  stands  Posie  Nansie's  inn, 
where  the  "Jolly  Beggars"  congregated. 
The  latter  is  a  two-story,  red-stone,  thatched 
house,  looking  old,  but  by  no  means  ven 
erable,  like  a  drunken  patriarch.  It  has 
small,  old-fashioned  windows,  and  may  well 
have  stood  for  centuries,  — though,  seventy 
or  eighty  years  ago,  when  Burns  was  con 
versant  with  it,  I  should  fancy  it  might 
have  been  something  better  than  a  beggars' 
alehouse.  The  whole  town  of  Mauchline 
looks  rusty  and  time-worn,  —  even  the 
newer  houses,  of  which  there  are  several, 
being  shadowed  and  darkened  by  the  gen 
eral  aspect  of  the  place.  When  we  arrived, 
all  the  wretched  little  dwellings  seemed  to 
have  belched  forth  their  inhabitants  into 
the  warm  summer  evening  :  everybody  was 
chatting  with  everybody,  on  the  most  fa 
miliar  terms  ;  the  bare  -  legged  children 
gamboled  or  quarreled  uproariously,  and 
came  freely,  moreover,  and  looked  into  the 
window  of  our  parlor.  When  we  ventured 
out,  we  were  followed  by  the  gaze  of  the 
old  town  :  people  standing  in  their  door 
ways,  old  women  popping  their  heads  from 
the  chamber-windows,  and  stalwart  men  — 
idle  on  Saturday  at  e'en,  after  their  week's 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    337 

hard  labor  —  clustering  at  the  street-cor 
ners,  merely  to  stare  at  our  unpretending 
selves.  Except  in  some  remote  little  town 
of  Italy  (where,  besides,  the  inhabitants  had 
the  intelligible  stimulus  of  beggary),  I  have 
never  been  honored  with  nearly  such  an 
amount  of  public  notice. 

The  next  forenoon  my  companion  put 
me  to  shame  by  attending  church,  after 
vainly  exhorting  me  to  do  the  like ;  and  it 
being  Sacrament  Sunday,  and  my  poor 
friend  being  wedged  into  the  farther  end 
of  a  closely  filled  pew,  he  was  forced  to 
stay  through  the  preaching  of  four  several 
sermons,  and  came  back  perfectly  exhausted 
and  desperate.  He  was  somewhat  consoled, 
however,  on  finding  that  he  had  witnessed 
a  spectacle  of  Scotch  manners  identical  with 
that  of  Burns's  "Holy  Fair"  on  the  very 
spot  where  the  poet  located  that  immortal 
description.  By  way  of  further  conform- 
ance  to  the  customs  of  the  country,  we 
ordered  a  sheep's  head  and  the  broth,  and 
did  penance  accordingly;  and  at  five  o'clock 
we  took  a  fly,  and  set  out  for  Burns's  farm 
of  Moss  Giel. 

Moss  Giel  is  not  more  than  a  mile  from 
Mauchline,  and  the  road  extends  over  a 
high  ridge  of  land,  with  a  view  of  far  hills 


338  OUR    OLD   HOME 

and  green  slopes  on  either  side.  Just  be 
fore  we  reached  the  farm,  the  driver  stopped 
to  point  out  a  hawthorn,  growing  by  the 
wayside,  which  he  said  was  Burns's  "Lousie 
Thorn  ;  "  and  I  devoutly  plucked  a  branch, 
although  I  have  really  forgotten  where  or 
how  this  illustrious  shrub  has  been  cele 
brated.  We  then  turned  into  a  rude  gate 
way,  and  almost  immediately  came  to  the 
farm-house  of  Moss  Giel,  standing  some 
fifty  yards  removed  from  the  high-road, 
behind  a  tall  hedge  of  hawthorn,  and  con 
siderably  overshadowed  by  trees.  The 
house  is  a  whitewashed  stone  cottage,  like 
thousands  of  others  in  England  and  Scot 
land,  with  a  thatched  roof,  on  which  grass 
and  weeds  have  intruded  a  picturesque, 
though  alien,  growth.  There  is  a  door  and 
one  window  in  front,  besides  another  little 
window  that  peeps  out  among  the  thatch. 
Close  by  the  cottage,  and  extending  back 
at  right  angles  from  it,  so  as  to  inclose  the 
farm-yard,  are  two  other  buildings  of  the 
same  size,  shape,  and  general  appearance 
as  the  house :  any  one  of  the  three  looks 
just  as  fit  for  a  human  habitation  as  the 
two  others,  and  all  three  look  still  more 
suitable  for  donkey-stables  and  pigsties, 
As  we  drove  into  the  farm-yard,  bounded 


SOME   OF   THE  HAUNTS   OF  BURNS    339 

on  three  sides  by  these  three  hovels,  a 
large  dog  began  to  bark  at  us  ;  and  some 
women  and  children  made  their  appear 
ance,  but  seemed  to  demur  about  admit 
ting  us,  because  the  master  and  mistress 
were  very  religious  people,  and  had  not  yet 
come  back  from  the  Sacrament  at  Mauch- 
line. 

However,  it  would  not  do  to  be  turned 
back  from  the  very  threshold  of  Robert 
Burns ;  and  as  the  women  seemed  to  be 
merely  straggling  visitors,  and  nobody,  at  all 
events,  had  a  right  to  send  us  away,  we  went 
into  the  back  door,  and,  turning  to  the  right, 
entered  a  kitchen.  It  showed  a  deplorable 
lack  of  housewifely  neatness,  and  in  it  there 
were  three  or  four  children,  one  of  whom, 
a  girl  eight  or  nine  years  old,  held  a  baby 
in  her  arms.  She  proved  to  be  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  people  of  the  house,  and  gave  us 
what  leave  she  could  to  look  about  us. 
Thence  we  stepped  across  the  narrow  mid- 
passage  of  the  cottage  into  the  only  other 
apartment  below  stairs,  a  sitting-room, 
where  we  found  a  young  man  eating  bread 
and  cheese.  He  informed  us  that  he  did 
not  live  there,  and  had  only  called  in  to 
refresh  himself  on  his  way  home  from 
church.  This  room,  like  the  kitchen,  was 


340  OUR   OLD  HOME 

a  noticeably  poor  one,  and,  besides  being 
all  that  the  cottage  had  to  show  for  a  par 
lor,  it  was  a  sleeping-apartment,  having  two 
beds,  which  might  be  curtained  off,  on 
occasion.  The  young  man  allowed  us  lib 
erty  (so  far  as  in  him  lay)  to  go  up  stairs. 
Up  we  crept,  accordingly  ;  and  a  few  steps 
brought  us  to  the  top  of  the  staircase,  over 
the  kitchen,  where  we  found  the  wretch- 
edest  little  sleeping-chamber  in  the  world, 
with  a  sloping  roof  under  the  thatch,  and 
two  beds  spread  upon  the  bare  floor.  This, 
most  probably,  was  Burns's  chamber;  or, 
perhaps,  it  may  have  been  that  of  his  moth 
er's  servant-maid  ;  and,  in  either  case,  this 
rude  floor,  at  one  time  or  another,  must 
have  creaked  beneath  the  poet's  midnight 
tread.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage 
was  the  door  of  another  attic-chamber, 
opening  which,  I  saw  a  considerable  num 
ber  of  cheeses  on  the  floor. 

The  whole  house  was  pervaded  with  a 
frowzy  smell,  and  also  a  dunghill  odor ; 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  the 
atmosphere  of  such  a  dwelling  can  be  any 
more  agreeable  or  salubrious  morally  than 
it  appeared  to  be  physically.  No  virgin, 
surely,  could  keep  a  holy  awe  about  her 
while  stowed  higgledy-piggledy  with  coarse- 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    341 

natured  rustics  into  this  narrowness  and 
filth.  Such  a  habitation  is  calculated  to 
make  beasts  of  men  and  women ;  and  it 
indicates  a  degree  of  barbarism  which  I 
did  not  imagine  to  exist  in  Scotland,  that 
a  tiller  of  broad  fields,  like  the  farmer  of 
Mauchline,  should  have  his  abode  in  a 
pigsty.  It  is  sad  to  think  of  anybody  — 
not  to  say  a  poet,  but  any  human  being 
—  sleeping,  eating,  thinking,  praying,  and 
spending  all  his  home-life  in  this  miser 
able  hovel  ;  but,  methinks,  I  never  in  the 
least  knew  how  to  estimate  the  miracle  of 
Burns's  genius,  nor  his  heroic  merit  for 
being  no  worse  man,  until  I  thus  learned 
the  squalid  hindrances  amid  which  he  de 
veloped  himself.  Space,  a  free  atmosphere, 
and  cleanliness  have  a  vast  deal  to  do  with 
the  possibilities  of  human  virtue. 

The  biographers  talk  of  the  farm  of 
Moss  Giel  as  being  damp  and  unwhole 
some  ;  but  I  do  not  see  why,  outside  of  the 
cottage-walls,  it  should  possess  so  evil  a  re 
putation.  It  occupies  a  high,  broad  ridge, 
enjoying,  surely,  whatever  benefit  can  come 
of  a  breezy  site,  and  sloping  far  downward 
before  any  marshy  soil  is  reached.  The 
high  hedge,  and  the  trees  that  stand  be 
side  the  cottage,  give  it  a  pleasant  aspect 


342  OUR   OLD   HOME 

enough  to  one  who  does  not  know  the 
grimy  secrets  of  the  interior  ;  and  the 
summer  afternoon  was  now  so  bright  that 
I  shall  remember  the  scene  with  a  great 
deal  of  sunshine  over  it. 

Leaving  the  cottage,  we  drove  through 
a  field,  which  the  driver  told  us  was  that 
in  which  Burns  turned  up  the  mouse's 
nest.  It  is  the  inclosure  nearest  to  the 
cottage,  and  seems  now  to  be  a  pasture, 
and  a  rather  remarkably  unfertile  one.  A 
little  farther  on,  the  ground  was  whitened 
with  an  immense  number  of  daisies,  - 
daisies,  daisies  everywhere  ;  and  in  answer 
to  my  inquiry,  the  driver  said  that  this  was 
the  field  where  Burns  ran  his  ploughshare 
over  the  daisy.  If  so,  the  soil  seems  to 
have  been  consecrated  to  daisies  by  the 
song  which  he  bestowed  on  that  first  im 
mortal  one.  I  alighted,  and  plucked  a 
whole  handful  of  these  "  wee,  modest,  crim 
son-tipped  flowers,"  which  will  be  precious 
to  many  friends  in  our  own  country  as 
coming  from  Burns's  farm,  and  being  of 
the  same  race  and  lineage  as  that  daisy 
which  he  turned  into  an  amaranthine  flower 
while  seeming  to  destroy  it.1 

1  SOUTHPORT,  May   \Qth.     The  grass  has  been  green 
for  a  month,  —  indeed,  it  has  never  been  entirely  brown, 


SOME   OF   THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    343 

From  Moss  Giel  we  drove  through  a  va 
riety  of  pleasant  scenes,  some  of  which 
were  familiar  to  us  by  their  connection 
with  Burns.  We  skirted,  too,  along  a  por 
tion  of  the  estate  of  Auchinleck,  which 
still  belongs  to  the  Boswell  family,  — •  the 
present  possessor  being  Sir  James  Bos- 
well,1  a  grandson  of  Johnson's  friend,  and 
son  of  the  Sir  Alexander  who  was  killed  in 
a  duel.  Our  driver  spoke  of  Sir  James  as 
a  kind,  free-hearted  man,  but  addicted  to 
horse  -  races  and  similar  pastimes,  and  a 
little  too  familiar  with  the  wine-cup ;  so 
that  poor  Bozzy's  booziness  would  appear 
to  have  become  hereditary  in  his  ancient 
line.  There  is  no  male  heir  to  the  estate 
of  Auchinleck.  The  portion  of  the  lands 
which  we  saw  is  covered  with  wood  and 
much  undermined  with  rabbit-warrens  ; 
nor,  though  the  territory  extends  over  a 

—  and  now  the  trees  and  hedges  are  beginning  to  be  in 
foliage.  Weeks  ago  the  daisies  bloomed,  even  in  the 
sandy  grass-plot  bordering  on  the  promenade  beneath 
our  front  windows  ;  and  in  the  progress  of  the  daisy, 
and  towards  its  consummation,  I  saw  the  propriety  of 
Burns's  epithet,  "  wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower,"  — 
its  little  white  petals  in  the  bud  being  fringed  all  round 
with  crimson,  which  fades  into  pure  white  when  the 
flower  blooms.  —  II.  419. 

1  Sir  James  Boswell  is  now  dead. 


344  OUR  OLD  HOME 

large  number  of  acres,  is  the  income  very 
considerable. 

By  and  by  we  came  to  the  spot  where 
Burns  saw  Miss  Alexander,  the  Lass  of 
Ballochmyle.  It  was  on  a  bridge,  which 
(or,  more  probably,  a  bridge  that  has  suc 
ceeded  to  the  old  one,  and  is  made  of  iron) 
crosses  from  bank  to  bank,  high  in  air 
over  a  deep  gorge  of  the  road  ;  so  that  the 
young  lady  may  have  appeared  to  Burns 
like  a  creature  between  earth  and  sky,  and 
compounded  chiefly  of  celestial  elements. 
But,  in  honest  truth,  the  great  charm  of  a 
woman,  in  Burns's  eyes,  was  always  her 
womanhood,  and  not  the  angelic  mixture 
which  other  poets  find  in  her. 

Our  driver  pointed  out  the  course  taken 
by  the  Lass  of  Ballochmyle,  through  the 
shrubbery,  to  a  rock  on  the  banks  of  the 
Lugar,  where  it  seems  to  be  the  tradition 
that  Burns  accosted  her.  The  song  im 
plies  no  such  interview.  Lovers,  of  what 
ever  condition,  high  or  low,  could  desire 
no  lovelier  scene  in  which  to  breathe  their 
vows  :  the  river  flowing  over  its  pebbly 
bed,  sometimes  gleaming  into  the  sun 
shine,  sometimes  hidden  deep  in  verdure, 
and  here  and  there  eddying  at  the  foot  of 
high  and  precipitous  cliffs.  This  beautiful 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    345 

estate  of  Ballochmyle  is  still  held  by  the 
family  of  Alexanders,  to  whom  Burns's 
song  has  given  renown  on  cheaper  terms 
than  any  other  set  of  people  ever  attained 
it.  How  slight  the  tenure  seems  !  A 
young  lady  happened  to  walk  out,  one 
summer  afternoon,  and  crossed  the  path 
of  a  neighboring  farmer,  who  celebrated 
the  little  incident  in  four  or  five  warm, 
rude,  —  at  least,  not  refined,  though  rather 
ambitious,  —  and  somewhat  ploughman- 
like  verses.  Burns  has  written  hundreds 
of  better  things ;  but  henceforth,  for  cen 
turies,  that  maiden  has  free  admittance 
into  the  dream-land  of  Beautiful  Women, 
and  she  and  all  her  race  are  famous.  I 
should  like  to  know  the  present  head  of 
the  family,  and  ascertain  what  value,  if  any, 
the  members  of  it  put  upon  the  celebrity 
thus  won. 

We  passed  through  Catrine,  known  here 
abouts  as  "the  clean  village  of  Scotland." 
Certainly,  as  regards  the  point  indicated, 
it  has  greatly  the  advantage  of  Mauchline, 
whither  we  now  returned  without  seeing 
anything  else  worth  writing  about. 

There  was  a  rain-storm  during  the  night, 
and,  in  the  morning,  the  rusty,  old,  slop 
ing  street  of  Mauchline  was  glistening  with 


346  OUR   OLD  HOME 

wet,  while  frequent  showers  came  spatter 
ing  down.  The  intense  heat  of  many  days 
past  was  exchanged  for  a  chilly  atmosphere, 
much  more  suitable  to  a  stranger's  idea  of 
what  Scotch  temperature  ought  to  be.  We 
found,  after  breakfast,  that  the  first  train 
northward  had  already  gone  bfy,  and  that 
we  must  wait  till  nearly  two  o'clock  for  the 
next.  I  merely  ventured  out  once,  during 
the  forenoon,  and  took  a  brief  walk  through 
the  village,  in  which  I  have  left  little  to 
describe.  Its  chief  business  appears  to 
be  the  manufacture  of  snuff-boxes.  There 
are  perhaps  five  or  six  shops,  or  more,  in 
cluding  those  licensed  to  sell  only  tea  and 
tobacco  ;  the  best  of  them  have  the  char 
acteristics  of  village  stores  in  the  United 
States,  dealing  in  a  small  way  with  an  ex 
tensive  variety  of  articles.  I  peeped  into 
the  open  gateway  of  the  churchyard,  and 
saw  that  the  ground  was  absolutely  stuffed 
with  dead  people,  and  the  surface  crowded 
with  gravestones,  both  perpendicular  and 
horizontal.  All  Burns's  old  Mauchline  ac 
quaintance  are  doubtless  there,  and  the 
Armours  among  them,  except  Bonny  Jean, 
who  sleeps  by  her  poet's  side.  The  fam 
ily  of  Armour  is  now  extinct  in  Mauch 
line. 


SOME   OF   THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    347 

Arriving  at  the  railway-station,  we  found 
a  tall,  elderly,  comely  gentleman  walking 
to  and  fro  and  waiting  for  the  train.  He 
proved  to  be  a  Mr.  Alexander,  —  it  may 
fairly  be  presumed  the  Alexander  of  Bal- 
lochmyle,  a  blood  relation  of  the  lovely  lass. 
Wonderful  efficacy  of  a  poet's  verse,  that 
could  shed  a  glory  from  Long  Ago  on  this 
old  gentleman's  white  hair !  These  Alex 
anders,  by  the  by,  are  not  an  old  family  on 
the  Ballochmyle  estate  ;  the  father  of  the 
lass  having  made  a  fortune  in  trade,  and 
established  himself  as  the  first  landed  pro 
prietor  of  his  name  in  these  parts.  The 
original  family  was  named  Whitefoord. 

Our  ride  to  Ayr  presented  nothing  very 
remarkable  ;  and,  indeed,  a  cloudy  and  rainy 
day  takes  the  varnish  off  the  scenery,  and 
causes  a  woful  diminution  in  the  beauty 
and  impressiveness  of  everything  we  see. 
Much  of  our  way  lay  along  a  flat,  sandy 
level,  in  a  southerly  direction.  We  reached 
Ayr  in  the  midst  of  hopeless  rain,  and  drove 
to  the  King's  Arms  Hotel.  In  the  intervals 
of  showers  I  took  peeps  at  the  town,  which 
appeared  to  have  many  modern  or  modern- 
fronted  edifices ;  although  there  are  like 
wise  tall,  gray,  gabled,  and  quaint-looking 
houses  in  the  by-streets,  here  and  there, 


348  OUR   OLD  HOME 

betokening  an  ancient  place,  The  town 
lies  on  both  sides  of  the  Ayr,  which  is 
here  broad  and  stately,  and  bordered  with 
dwellings  that  look  from  their  windows 
directly  down  into  the  passing  tide. 

I  crossed  the  river  by  -a  modern  and 
handsome  stone  bridge,  and  recrossed  it,  at 
no  great  distance,  by  a  venerable  structure 
of  four  gray  arches,  which  must  have  be 
stridden  the  stream  ever  since  the  early 
days  of  Scottish  history.  These  are  the 
"Two  Briggs  of  Ayr,"  whose  midnight 
conversation  was  overheard  by  Burns,  while 
other  auditors  were  aware  only  of  the  rush 
and  rumble  of  the  wintry  stream  among  the 
arches.  The  ancient  bridge  is  steep  and 
narrow,  and  paved  like  a  street,  and  de 
fended  by  a  parapet  of  red  freestone,  except 
at  the  two  ends,  where  some  mean  old  shops 
allow  scanty  room  for  the  pathway  to  creep 
between.  Nothing  else  impressed  me  here 
abouts,  unless  I  mention  that,  during  the 
rain,  the  women  and  girls  went  about  the 
streets  of  Ayr  barefooted  to  save  their 
shoes. 

The  next  morning  wore  a  lowering  as 
pect  as  if  it  felt  itself  destined  to  be  one 
of  many  consecutive  days  of  storm.  After 
a  good  Scotch  breakfast,  however,  of  fresh 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    349 

herrings  and  eggs,  we  took  a  fly,  and  started 
at  a  little  past  ten  for  the  banks  of  the 
Doon.  On  our  way,  at  about  two  miles 
from  Ayr,  we  drew  up  at  a  roadside  cottage, 
on  which  was  an  inscription  to  the  effect 
that  Robert  Burns  was  born  within  its 
walls.  It  is  now  a  public  house ;  and,  of 
course,  we  alighted  and  entered  its  little 
sitting-room,  which,  as  we  at  present  see  it, 
is  a  neat  apartment  with  the  modern  im 
provement  of  a  ceiling.  The  walls  are 
much  overscribbled  with  names  of  visitors, 
and  the  wooden  door  of  a  cupboard  in  the 
wainscot,  as  well  as  all  the  other  wood-work 
of  the  room,  is  cut  and  carved  with  initial 
letters.  So,  likewise,  are  two  tables,  which, 
having  received  a  coat  of  varnish  over  the 
inscriptions,  form  really  curious  and  inter 
esting  articles  of  furniture.  I  have  seldom 
(though  I  do  not  personally  adopt  this 
mode  of  illustrating  my  humble  name)  felt 
inclined  to  ridicule  the  natural  impulse  of 
most  people  thus  to  record  themselves  at 
the  shrines  of  poets  and  heroes. 

On  a  panel,  let  into  the  wall  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  is  a  portrait  of  Burns,  copied 
from  the  original  picture  by  Nasmyth.  The 
floor  of  this  apartment  is  of  boards,  which 
are  probably  a  recent  substitute  for  the 


350  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ordinary  flag-stones  of  a  peasant's  cottage. 
There  is  but  one  other  room  pertaining  to 
the  genuine  birthplace  of  Robert  Burns : 
it  is  the  kitchen,  into  which  we  now  went. 
It  has  a  floor  of  flag-stones,  even  ruder  than 
those  of  Shakespeare's  house,  —  though, 
perhaps,  not  so  strangely  cracked  and  bro 
ken  as  the  latter,  over  which  the  hoof  of 
Satan  himself  might  seem  to  have  been 
trampling.  A  new  window  has  been  opened 
through  the  wall,  towards  the  road  ;  but  on 
the  opposite  side  is  the  little  original  win 
dow,  of  only  four  small  panes,  through 
which  came  the  first  daylight  that  shone 
upon  the  Scottish  poet.  At  the  side  of 
the  room,  opposite  the  fireplace,  is  a  recess, 
containing  a  bed,  which  can  be  hidden  by 
curtains.  In  that  humble  nook,  of  all  places 
in  the  world,  Providence  was  pleased  to  de 
posit  the  germ  of  richest  human  life  which 
mankind  then  had  within  its  circumference. 
These  two  rooms,  as  I  have  said,  make 
up  the  whole  sum  and  substance  of  Burns's 
birthplace :  for  there  were  no  chambers, 
nor  even  attics ;  and  the  thatched  roof 
formed  the  only  ceiling  of  kitchen  and  sit 
ting-room,  the  height  of  which  was  that  of 
the  whole  house.  The  cottage,  however,  is 
attached  to  another  edifice  of  the  same  size 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    351 

and  description,  as  these  little  habitations 
often  are ;  and,  moreover,  a  splendid  addi 
tion  has  been  made  to  it,  since  the  poet's 
renown  began  to  draw  visitors  to  the  way 
side  alehouse.  The  old  woman  of  the  house 
led  us  through  an  entry,  and  showed  a 
vaulted  hall,  of  no  vast  dimensions,  to  be 
sure,  but  marvelously  large  and  splendid 
as  compared  with  what  might  be  antici 
pated  from  the  outward  aspect  of  the  cot 
tage.  It  contained  a  bust  of  Burns,  and 
was  hung  round  with  pictures  and  engrav 
ings,  principally  illustrative  of  his  life  and 
poems.  In  this  part  of  the  house,  too, 
there  is  a  parlor,  fragrant  with  tobacco- 
smoke  ;  and,  no  doubt,  many  a  noggin  of 
whiskey  is  here  quaffed  to  the  memory  of 
the  bard,  who  professed  to  draw  so  much 
inspiration  from  that  potent  liquor. 

We  bought  some  engravings  of  Kirk 
Alloway,  the  Bridge  of  Doon,  and  the  mon 
ument,  and  gave  the  old  woman  a  fee  be 
sides,  and  took  our  leave.  A  very  short 
drive  farther  brought  us  within  sight  of  the 
monument,  and  to  the  hotel,  situated  close 
by  the  entrance  of  the  ornamental  grounds 
within  which  the  former  is  inclosed.  We 
rang  the  bell  at  the  gate  of  the  inclosure, 
but  were  forced  to  wait  a  considerable  time; 


352  OUR   OLD  HOME 

because  the  old  man,  the  regular  superin 
tendent  of  the  spot,  had  gone  to  assist  at 
the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  a  new 
kirk.  He  appeared  anon,  and  admitted  us, 
but  immediately  hurried  away  to  be  present 
at  the  concluding  ceremonies,  leaving  us 
locked  up  with  Burns. 

The  inclosure  around  the  monument  is 
beautifully  laid  out  as  an  ornamental  gar 
den,  and  abundantly  provided  with  rare 
flowers  and  shrubbery,  all  tended  with  lov 
ing  care.  The  monument  stands  on  an  ele 
vated  site,  and  consists  of  a  massive  base 
ment  story,  three-sided,  above  which  rises 
a  light  and  elegant  Grecian  temple,  —  a 
mere  dome,  supported  on  Corinthian  pil 
lars,  and  open  to  all  the  winds.  The  edi 
fice  is  beautiful  in  itself ;  though  I  know 
not  what  peculiar  appropriateness  it  may 
have,  as  the  memorial  of  a  Scottish  rural 
poet. 

The  door  of  the  basement  story  stood 
open ;  and,  entering,  we  saw  a  bust  of 
Burns  in  a  niche,  looking  keener,  more  re 
fined,  but  not  so  warm  and  whole-souled 
as  his  pictures  usually  do.  I  think  the 
likeness  cannot  be  good.  In  the  centre  of 
the  room  stood  a  glass  case,  in  which  were 
reposited  the  two  volumes  of  the  little 


SOME   OF   THE   HAUNTS  OF  BURNS     353 

Pocket  Bible  that  Burns  gave  to  Highland 
Mary,  when  they  pledged  their  troth  to 
one  another.  It  is  poorly  printed  on  coarse 
paper.  A  verse  of  Scripture  referring  to 
the  solemnity  and  awfulness  of  vows  is  writ 
ten  within  the  cover  of  each  volume,  in  the 
poet's  own  hand  ;  and  fastened  to  one  of 
the  covers  is  a  lock  of  Highland  Mary's 
golden  hair.  This  Bible  had  been  carried 
to  America  by  one  of  her  relatives,  but  was 
sent  back  to  be  fitly  treasured  here. 

There  is  a  staircase  within  the  monu 
ment,  by  which  we  ascended  to  the  top, 
and  had  a  view  of  both  Briggs  of  Doon  : 
the  scene  of  Tarn  O'Shanter's  misadven 
ture  being  close  at  hand.  Descending,  we 
wandered  through  the  inclosed  garden,  and 
came  to  a  little  building  in  a  corner,  on  en 
tering  which,  we  found  the  two  statues  of 
Tarn  and  Sutor  Wat,  —  ponderous  stone 
work  enough,  yet  permeated  in  a  remark 
able  degree  with  living  warmth  and  jovial 
hilarity.  From  this  part  of  the  garden, 
too,  we  again  beheld  the  old  Brigg  of 
Doon,  over  which  Tam  galloped  in  such 
imminent  and  awful  peril.  It  is  a  beauti 
ful  object  in  the  landscape,  with  one  high, 
graceful  arch,  ivy-grown,  and  shadowed  all 
over  and  around  with  foliage. 


354  OUR  OLD  HOME 

When  we  had  waited  a  good  while,  the 
old  gardener  came,  telling  us  that  he  had 
heard  an  excellent  prayer  at  laying  the  cor 
ner-stone  of  the  new  kirk.  He  now  gave 
us  some  roses  and  sweetbrier,  and  let  us 
out  from  his  pleasant  garden.  We  imme 
diately  hastened  to  Kirk  Alloway,  which 
is  within  two  or  three  minutes'  walk  of  the 
monument.  A  few  steps  ascend  from  the 
roadside,  through  a  gate,  into  the  old 
graveyard,  in  the  midst  of  which  stands 
the  kirk.  The  edifice  is  wholly  roofless, 
but  the  side-walls  and  gable-ends  are  quite 
entire,  though  portions  of  them  are  evi 
dently  modern  restorations.  Never  was 
there  a  plainer  little  church,  or  one  with 
smaller  architectural  pretensions  ;  no  New 
England  meeting-house  has  more  simpli 
city  in  its  very  self,  though  poetry  and  fun 
have  clambered  and  clustered  so  wildly 
over  Kirk  Alloway  that  it  is  difficult  to 
see  it  as  it  actually  exists.  By  the  by, 
I  do  not  understand  why  Satan  and  an  as 
sembly  of  witches  should  hold  their  revels 
within  a  consecrated  precinct  ;  but  the 
weird  scene  has  so  established  itself  in  the 
world's  imaginative  faith  that  it  must  be 
accepted  as  an  authentic  incident,  in  spite 
of  rule  and  reason  to  the  contrary.  Pos- 


SOME   OF  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BURNS    355 

sibly,  some  carnal  minister,  some  priest  of 
pious  aspect  and  hidden  infidelity,  had  dis 
pelled  the  consecration  of  the  holy  edifice 
by  his  pretense  of  prayer,  and  thus  made 
it  the  resort  of  unhappy  ghosts  and  sorcer 
ers  and  devils. 

The  interior  of  the  kirk,  even  now,  is 
applied  to  quite  as  impertinent  a  purpose 
as  when  Satan  and  the  witches  used  it  as 
a  dancing-hall ;  for  it  is  divided  in  the 
midst  by  a  wall  of  stone-masonry,  and  each 
compartment  has  been  converted  into  a 
family  burial-place.  The  name  on  one  of 
the  monuments  is  Crawfurd ;  the  other 
bore  no  inscription.  It  is  impossible  not 
to  feel  that  these  good  people,  whoever 
they  may  be,  had  no  business  to  thrust 
their  prosaic  bones  into  a  spot  that  belongs 
to  the  world,  and  where  their  presence  jars 
with  the  emotions,  be  they  sad  or  gay, 
which  the  pilgrim  brings  thither.  They 
shut  us  out  from  our  own  precincts,  too, 
—  from  that  inalienable  possession  which 
Burns  bestowed  in  free  gift  upon  mankind, 
by  taking  it  from  the  actual  earth  and  an 
nexing  it  to  the  domain  of  imagination. 
And  here  these  wretched  squatters  have 
lain  down  to  their  long  sleep,  after  barring 
each  of  the  two  doorways  of  the  kirk  with 


356  OUR   OLD  HOME 

an  iron  grate  !  May  their  rest  be  troubled, 
till  they  rise  and  let  us  in  ! 

Kirk  Alloway  is  inconceivably  small, 
considering  how  large  a  space  it  fills  in  our 
imagination  before  we  see  it.  I  paced  its 
length,  outside  of  the  wall,  and  found  it 
only  seventeen  of  my  paces,  and  not  more 
than  ten  of  them  in  breadth.  There  seem 
to  have  been  but  very  few  windows,  all  of 
which,  if  I  rightly  remember,  are  now 
blocked  up  with  mason  -  work  of  stone. 
One  mullioned  window,  tall  and  narrow,  in 
the  eastern  gable,  might  have  been  seen 
by  Tarn  O'Shanter,  blazing  with  devilish 
light,  as  he  approached  along  the  road 
from  Ayr  ;  and  there  is  a  small  and  square 
one,  on  the  side  nearest  the  road,  into 
which  he  might  have  peered,  as  he  sat  on 
horseback.  Indeed,  I  could  easily  have 
looked  through  it,  standing  on  the  ground, 
had  not  the  opening  been  walled  up.  There 
is  an  odd  kind  of  belfry  at  the  peak  of 
one  of  the  gables,  with  the  small  bell  still 
hanging  in  it.  And  this  is  all  that  I 
remember  of  Kirk  Alloway,  except  that 
the  stones  of  its  material  are  gray  and 
irregular. 

The  road  from  Ayr  passes  Alloway  Kirk, 
and  crosses  the  Doon  by  a  modern  bridge, 


SOME    OF  THE   HAUNTS   OF  BURNS     357 

without  swerving  much  from  a  straight 
line.  To  reach  the  old  bridge,  it  appears 
to  have  made  a  bend,  shortly  after  passing 
the  kirk,  and  then  to  have  turned  sharply 
towards  the  river.  The  new  bridge  is 
within  a  minute's  walk  of  the  monument  ; 
and  we  went  thither,  and  leaned  over  its 
parapet  to  admire  the  beautiful  Doon,  flow 
ing  wildly  and  sweetly  between  its  deep 
and  wooded  banks.  I  never  saw  a  lovelier 
scene  ;  although  this  might  have  been  even 
lovelier  if  a  kindly -sun  had  shone  upon  it. 
The  ivy-grown,  ancient  bridge,  with  its 
high  arch,  through  which  we  had  a  picture 
of  the  river  and  the  green  banks  beyond, 
was  absolutely  the  most  picturesque  ob 
ject,  in  a  quiet  and  gentle  way,  that  ever 
blessed  my  eyes.  Bonny  Doon,  with  its 
wooded  banks,  and  the  boughs  dipping  into 
the  water  !  The  memory  of  them,  at  this 
moment,  affects  me  like  the  song  of  birds, 
and  Burns  crooning  some  verses,  simple 
and  wild,  in  accordance  with  their  native 
melody. 

It  was  impossible  to  depart  without  cross 
ing  the  very  bridge  of  Tarn's  adventure  ; 
so  we  went  thither,  over  a  now  disused 
portion  of  the  road,  and,  standing  on  the 
centre  of  the  arch,  gathered  some  ivy-leaves 


358  OUR   OLD  HOME 

from  that  sacred  spot.  This  done,  we  re 
turned  as  speedily  as  might  be  to  Ayr, 
whence,  taking  the  rail,  we  soon  beheld 
Ailsa  Craig  rising  like  a  pyramid  out  of 
the  sea.  Drawing  nearer  to  Glasgow,  Ben 
Lomond  hove  in  sight,  with  a  dome  -like 
summit,  supported  by  a  shoulder  on  each 
side.  But  a  man  is  better  than  a  moun 
tain  ;  and  we  had  been  holding  intercourse, 
if  not  with  the  reality,  at  least  with  the 
stalwart  ghost  of  one  of  Earth's  memo 
rable  sons,  amid  the  scenes  where  he  lived 
and  sung.  We  shall  appreciate  him  better 
as  a  poet,  hereafter;  for  there  is  no  writer 
whose  life,  as  a  man,  has  so  much  to  do 
with  his  fame,  and  throws  such  a  neces 
sary  light  upon  whatever  he  has  pro 
duced.  Henceforth,  there  will  be  a  per 
sonal  warmth  for  us  in  everything  that  he 
wrote  ;  and,  like  his  countrymen,  we  shall 
know  him  in  a  kind  of  personal  way,  as  if 
we  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and  felt 
the  thrill  of  his  actual  voice. 


IX. 

A   LONDON   SUBURB 

ONE  of  our  English  summers  looks,  in  the 
retrospect,  as  if  it  had  been  patched  with 
more  frequent  sunshine  than  the  sky  of 
England  ordinarily  affords ;  but  I  believe 
that  it  may  be  only  a  moral  effect,  —  a 
"light  'that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,"  — 
caused  by  our  having  found  a  particularly 
delightful  abode  in  the  neighborhood  of 
London.  In  order  to  enjoy  it,  however, 
I  was  compelled  to  solve  the  problem  of 
living  in  two  places  at  once,  —  an  impossi 
bility  which  I  so  far  accomplished  as  to 
vanish,  at  frequent  intervals,  out  of  men's 
sight  and  knowledge  on  one  side  of  Eng 
land,  and  take  my  place  in  a  circle  of 
familiar  faces  on  the  other,  so  quietly  that 
I  seemed  to  have  been  there  all  along.  It 
was  the  easier  to  get  accustomed  to  our 
new  residence,  because  it  was  not  only  rich 
in  all  the  material  properties  of  a  home, 
but  had  also  the  home-like  atmosphere,  the 
household  element,  which  is  of  too  intan- 


360  OUR   OLD   HOME 

gible  a  character  to  be  let  even  with  the 
most  thoroughly  furnished  lodging-house. 
A  friend  had  given  us  his  suburban  resi 
dence,  with  all  its  conveniences,  elegances, 
and  snuggeries,  —  its  drawing-rooms  and 
library,  still  warm  and  bright  with  the  recol 
lection  of  the  genial  presences  that  we  had 
known  there,  —  its  closets,  chambers,  kitch 
en,  and  even  its  wine-cellar,  if  we  could 
have  availed  ourselves  of  so  dear  and  deli 
cate  a  trust,  —  its  lawn  and  cosey  garden- 
nooks,  and  whatever  else  makes  up  the 
multitudinous  idea  of  an  English  home,  — 
he  had  transferred  it  all  to  us,  pilgrims  and 
dusty  wayfarers,  that  we  might  rest  and 
take  our  ease  during  his  summer's  absence 
on  the  Continent.  We  had  long  been 
dwelling  in  tents,  as  it  were,  and  morally 
shivering  by  hearths  which,  heap  the  bitu 
minous  coal  upon  them  as  we  might,  no 
blaze  could  render  cheerful.  I  remember, 
to  this  day,  the  dreary  feeling  with  which 
I  sat  by  our  first  English  fireside,  and 
watched  the  chill  and  rainy  twilight  of 
an  autumn  day  darkening  down  upon  the 
garden  ;  while  the  portrait  of  the  preceding 
occupant  of  the  house  (evidently  a  most  un- 
amiable  personage  in  his  lifetime)  scowled 
inhospitably  from  above  the  mantelpiece, 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  361 

as  if  indignant  that  an  American  should  try 
to  make  himself  at  home  there.  Possibly 
it  may  appease  his  sulky  shade  to  know 
that  I  quitted  his  abode  as  much  a  stranger 
as  I  entered  it.  But  now,  at  last,  we  were 
in  a  genuine  British  home,  where  refined 
and  warm-hearted  people  had  just  been 
living  their  daily  life,  and  had  left  us 
a  summer's  inheritance  of  slowly  ripened 
days,  such  as  a  stranger's  hasty  opportuni 
ties  so  seldom  permit  him  to  enjoy. 

Within  so  trifling  a  distance  of  the  cen 
tral  spot  of  all  the  world  (which,  as  Ameri 
cans  have  at  present  no  centre  of  their  own, 
we  may  allow  to  be  somewhere  in  the  vicin 
ity,  we  will  say,  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral),  it 
might  have  seemed  natural  that  I  should  be 
tossed  about  by  the  turbulence  of  the  vast 
London  whirlpool.  But  I  had  drifted  into 
a  still  eddy,  where  conflicting  movements 
made  a  repose,  and,  wearied  with  a  good 
deal  of  uncongenial  activity,  I  found  the 
quiet  of  my  temporary  haven  more  attrac 
tive  than  anything  that  the  great  town 
could  offer.  I  already  knew  London  well ; 
that  is  to  say,  I  had  long  ago  satisfied  (so 
far  as  it  was  capable  of  satisfaction)  that 
mysterious  yearning  —  the  magnetism  of 
millions  of  hearts  operating  upon  one  — • 


362  OUR   OLD  HOME 

which  impels  every  man's  individuality  to 
mingle  itself  with  the  immensest  mass  of 
human  life  within  his  scope.  Day  after 
day,  at  an  earlier  period,  I  had  trodden  the 
thronged  thoroughfares,  the  broad,  lonely 
squares,  the  lanes,  alleys,  and  strange  laby 
rinthine  courts,  the  parks,  the  gardens  and 
inclosures  of  ancient  studious  societies,  so 
retired  and  silent  amid  the  city  uproar,  the 
markets,  the  foggy  streets  along  the  river 
side,  the  bridges,  —  I  had  sought  all  parts 
of  the  metropolis,  in  short,  with  an  unweari- 
able  and  indiscriminating  curiosity ;  until 
few  of  the  native  inhabitants,  I  fancy,  had 
turned  so  many  of  its  corners  as  myself. 
These  aimless  wanderings  (in  which  my 
prime  purpose  and  achievement  were  to 
lose  my  way,  and  so  to  find  it  the  more 
surely)  had  brought  me,  at  one  time  or 
another,  to  the  sight  and  actual  presence 
of  almost  all  the  objects  and  renowned 
localities  that  I  had  read  about,  and  which 
had  made  London  the  dream-city  of  my 
youth.  I  had  found  it  better  than  my 
dream ;  for  there  is  nothing  else  in  life 
comparable  (in  that  species  of  enjoyment, 
I  mean)  to  the  thick,  heavy,  oppressive, 
sombre  delight  which  an  American  is  sen 
sible  of,  hardly  knowing  whether  to  call  it 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  363 

a  pleasure  or  a  pain,  in  the  atmosphere  of 
London.  The  result  was,  that  I  acquired 
a  home-feeling  there,  as  nowhere  else  in 
the  world,  —  though  afterwards  I  came  to 
have  a  somewhat  similar  sentiment  in  re 
gard  to  Rome  ;  and  as  long  as  either  of 
those  two  great  cities  shall  exist,  the  cities 
of  the  Past  and  of  the  Present,  a  man's 
native  soil  may  crumble  beneath  his  feet 
without  leaving  him  altogether  homeless 
upon  earth. 

Thus,  having  once  fully  yielded  to  its 
influence,  I  was  in  a  manner  free  of  the 
city,  and  could  approach  or  keep  away  from 
it  as  I  pleased.  Hence  it  happened  that, 
living  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  rush  of 
the  London  Bridge  Terminus,  I  was  oftener 
tempted  to  spend  a  whole  summer  day  in 
our  garden  than  to  seek  anything  new  or 
old,  wonderful  or  commonplace,  beyond  its 
precincts.  It  was  a  delightful  garden,  of 
no  great  extent,  but  comprising  a  good 
many  facilities  for  repose  and  enjoyment, 
such  as  arbors  and  garden-seats,  shrubbery, 
flower-beds,  rose-bushes  in  a  profusion  of 
bloom,  pinks,  poppies,  geraniums,  sweet- 
peas,  and  a  variety  of  other  scarlet,  yellow, 
blue,  and  purple  blossoms,  which  I  did  not 
trouble  myself  to  recognize  individually, 


364  OUR   OLD  HOME 

yet  had  always  a  vague  sense  of  their 
beauty  about  me.  The  dim  sky  of  England 
has  a  most  happy  effect  on  the  coloring  of 
flowers,  blending  richness  with  delicacy  in 
the  same  texture ;  but  in  this  garden,  as 
everywhere  else,  the  exuberance  of  English 
verdure  had  a  greater  charm  than  any  trop 
ical  splendor  or  diversity  of  hue.  The 
hunger  for  natural  beauty  might  be  satis 
fied  with  grass  and  green  leaves  forever. 
Conscious  of  the  triumph  of  England  in 
this  respect,  and  loyally  anxious  for  the 
credit  of  my  own  country,  it  gratified  me 
to  observe  what  trouble  and  pains  the  Eng 
lish  gardeners  are  fain  to  throw  away  in 
producing  a  few  sour  plums  and  abortive 
pears  and  apples,  —  as,  for  example,  in  this 
very  garden,  where  a  row  of  unhappy  trees 
were  spread  out  perfectly  flat  against  a 
brick  wall,  looking  as  if  impaled  alive,  or 
crucified,  with  a  cruel  and  unattainable 
purpose  of  compelling  them  to  produce  rich 
fruit  by  torture.  For  my  part,  I  never  ate 
an  English  fruit,  raised  in  the  open  air, 
that  could  compare  in  flavor  with  a  Yankee 
turnip. 

The  garden  included  that  prime  feature 
of  English  domestic  scenery,  a  lawn.  It 
had  been  leveled,  carefully  shorn,  and  con- 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  365 

verted  into  a  bowling-green,  on  which  we 
sometimes  essayed  to  practice  the  time- 
honored  game  of  bowls,  most  unskillfully, 
yet  not  without  a  perception  that  it  in 
volves  a  very  pleasant  mixture  of  exercise 
and  ease,  as  is  the  case  with  most  of  the 
old  English  pastimes.  Our  little  domain 
was  shut  in  by  the  house  on  one  side,  and 
in  other  directions  by  a  hedge-fence  and  a 
brick  wall,  which  last  was  concealed  or  soft 
ened  by  shrubbery  and  the  impaled  fruit- 
trees  already  mentioned.  Over  all  the  outer 
region,  beyond  our  immediate  precincts, 
there  was  an  abundance  of  foliage,  tossed 
aloft  from  the  near  or  distant  trees  with 
which  that  agreeable  suburb  is  adorned. 
The  effect  was  wonderfully  sylvan  and 
rural,  insomuch  that  we  might  have  fancied 
ourselves  in  the  depths  of  a  wooded  seclu 
sion  ;  only  that,  at  brief  intervals,  we  could 
hear  the  galloping  sweep  of  a  railway-train 
passing  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  its 
discordant  screech,  moderated  by  a  little 
farther  distance,  as  it  reached  the  Black- 
heath  Station.  That  harsh,  rough  sound, 
seeking  me  out  so  inevitably,  was  the  voice 
of  the  great  world  summoning  me  forth. 
I  know  not  whether  I  was  the  more  pained 
or  pleased  to  be  thus  constantly  put  in 


366  OUR   OLD  HOME 

mind  of  the  neighborhood  of  London  ;  for, 
on  the  one  hand,  my  conscience  stung  me 
a  little  for  reading  a  book,  or  playing  with 
children  in  the  grass,  when  there  were 
so  many  better  things  for  an  enlightened 
traveler  to  do,  —  while,  at  the  same  time, 
it  gave  a  deeper  delight  to  my  luxurious 
idleness  to  contrast  it  with  the  turmoil 
which  I  escaped.  On  the  whole,  however, 
I  do  not  repent  of  a  single  wasted  hour, 
and  only  wish  that  I  could  have  spent 
twice  as  many  in  the  same  way ;  for  the 
impression  on  my  memory  is,  that  I  was 
as  happy  in  that  hospitable  garden  as  the 
English  summer  day  was  long. 

One  chief  condition  of  my  enjoyment 
was  the  weather.  Italy  has  nothing  like 
it,  nor  America.  There  never  was  such 
weather  except  in  England,  where,  in  re 
quital  of  a  vast  amount  of  horrible  east 
wind  between  February  and  June,  and  a 
brown  October  and  black  November,  and 
a  wet,  chill,  sunless  winter,  there  are  a  few 
weeks  of  incomparable  summer,  scattered 
through  July  and  August,  and  the  earlier 
portion  of  September,  small  in  quantity, 
but  exquisite  enough  to  atone  for  the  whole 
year's  atmospherical  delinquencies.  After 
all,  the  prevalent  sombreness  may  have 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  367 

brought  out  those  sunny  intervals  in  such 
high  relief  that  I  see  them,  in  my  recol 
lection,  brighter  than  they  really  were  :  a 
little  light  makes  a  glory  for  people  who 
live  habitually  in  a  gray  gloom.  The  Eng 
lish,  however,  do  not  seem  to  know  how 
enjoyable  the  momentary  gleams  of  their 
summer  are ;  they  call  it  broiling  weather, 
and  hurry  to  the  seaside  with  red,  perspir 
ing  faces,  in  a  state  of  combustion  and  de 
liquescence  ;  and  I  have  observed  that  even 
their  cattle  have  similar  susceptibilities, 
seeking  the  deepest  shade,  or  standing 
midleg  deep  in  pools  and  streams  to  cool 
themselves,  at  temperatures  which  our  own 
cows  would  deem  little  more  than  barely 
comfortable.  To  myself,  after  the  summer 
heats  of  my  native  land  had  somewhat 
effervesced  out  of  my  blood  and  memory, 
it  was  the  weather  of  Paradise  itself.  It 
might  be  a  little  too  warm  ;  but  it  was 
that  modest  and  inestimable  superabun 
dance  which  constitutes  a  bounty  of  Provi 
dence,  instead  of  just  a  niggardly  enough. 
During  my  first  year  in  England,  residing 
in  perhaps  the  most  ungenial  part  of  the 
kingdom,  I  could  never  be  quite  comfort 
able  without  a  fire  on  the  hearth  ;  in  the 
second  twelvemonth,  beginning  to  get  ac- 


368  OUR   OLD  HOME 

climatized,  I  became  sensible  of  an  austere 
friendliness,  shy,  but  sometimes  almost  ten 
der,  in  the  veiled,  shadowy,  seldom  smiling 
summer  ;  and  in  the  succeeding  years,  — 
whether  that  I  had  renewed  my  fibre  with 
English  beef  and  replenished  my  blood 
with  English  ale,  or  whatever  were  the 
cause,  —  I  grew  content  with  winter  and 
especially  in  love  with  summer,  desiring 
little  more  for  happiness  than  merely  to 
breathe  and  bask.  At  the  midsummer 
which  we  are  now  speaking  of,  I  must 
needs  confess  that  the  noontide  sun  came 
down  more  fervently  than  I  found  alto 
gether  tolerable ;  so  that  I  was  fain  to 
shift  my  position  with  the  shadow  of  the 
shrubbery,  making  myself  the  movable  in 
dex  of  a  sundial  that  reckoned  up  the 
hours  of  an  almost  interminable  day. 

For  each  day  seemed  endless,  though 
never  wearisome.  As  far  as  your  actual 
experience  is  concerned,  the  English  sum 
mer  day  has  positively  no  beginning  and 
no  end.  When  you  awake,  at  any  reason 
able  hour,  the  sun  is  already  shining 
through  the  curtains  ;  you  live  through 
unnumbered  hours  of  Sabbath  quietude, 
with  a  calm  variety  of  incident  softly 
etched  upon  their  tranquil  lapse ;  and  at 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  369 

length  you  become  conscious  that  it  is 
bedtime  again,  while  there  is  still  enough 
daylight  in  the  sky  to  make  the  pages  of 
your  book  distinctly  legible.  Night,  if 
there  be  any  such  season,  hangs  down  a 
transparent  veil  through  which  the  by 
gone  day  beholds  its  successor  ;  or,  if  not 
quite  true  of  the  latitude  of  London,  it 
may  be  soberly  affirmed  of  the  more  north 
ern  parts  of  the  island,  that  To-morrow  is 
born  before  its  Yesterday  is  dead.  They 
exist  together  in  the  golden  twilight,  where 
the  decrepit  old  day  dimly  discerns  the  face 
of  the  ominous  infant ;  and  you,  though  a 
mere  mortal,  may  simultaneously  touch 
them  both  with  one  finger  of  recollection 
and  another  of  prophecy.  I  cared  not  how 
long  the  day  might  be,  nor  how  many  of 
them.  I  had  earned  this  repose  by  a  long 
course  of  irksome  toil  and  perturbation, 
and  could  have  been  content  never  to  stray 
out  of  the  limits  of  that  suburban  villa  and 
its  garden.  If  I  lacked  anything  beyond, 
it  would  have  satisfied  me  well  enough  to 
dream  about  it,  instead  of  struggling  for  its 
actual  possession.  At  least,  this  was  the 
feeling  of  the  moment ;  although  the  tran 
sitory,  flitting,  and  irresponsible  character 
of  my  life  there,  was  perhaps  the  most  en- 


370 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


joyable  element  of  all,  as  allowing  me  much 
of  the  comfort  of  house  and  home,  without 
any  sense  of  their  weight  upon  my  back. 
The  nomadic  life  has  great  advantages,  if 
we  can  find  tents  ready  pitched  for  us  at 
every  stage. 

So  much  for  the  interior  of  our  abode,  — 
a  spot  of  deepest  quiet,  within  reach  of  the 
intensest  activity.  But,  even  when  we 
stepped  beyond  our  own  gate,  we  were  not 
shocked  with  any  immediate  presence  of 
the  great  world.  We  were  dwelling  in  one 
of  those  oases  that  have  grown  up  (in  com 
paratively  recent  years,  I  believe)  on  the 
wide  waste  of  Blackheatb,  which  otherwise 
offers  a  vast  extent  of  unoccupied  ground 
in  singular  proximity  to  the  metropolis. 
As  a  general  thing,  the  proprietorship  of 
the  soil  seems  to  exist  in  everybody  and 
nobody ;  but  exclusive  rights  have  been 
obtained,  here  and  there,  chiefly  by  men 
whose  daily  concerns  link  them  with  Lon 
don,  so  that  you  find  their  villas  or  boxes 
standing  along  village  streets  which  have 
often  more  of  an  American  aspect  than  the 
elder  English  settlements.  The  scene  is 
semi-rural.  Ornamental  trees  overshadow 
the  sidewalks,  and  grassy  margins  border 
the  wheel-tracks.  The  houses,  to  be  sure, 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  3/1 

have  certain  points  of  difference  from  those 
of  an  American  village,  bearing  tokens  of 
architectural  design,  though  seldom  of  in 
dividual  taste ;  and,  as  far  as  possible,  they 
stand  aloof  from  the  street,  and  separated 
each  from  its  neighbor  by  hedge  or  fence, 
in  accordance  with  the  careful  exclusive- 
ness  of  the  English  character,  which  impels 
the  occupant,  moreover,  to  cover  the  front 
of  his  dwelling  with  as  much  concealment 
of  shrubbery  as  his  limits  will  allow. 
Through  the  interstices,  you  catch  glimpses 
of  well-kept  lawns,  generally  ornamented 
with  flowers,  and  with  what  the  English 
call  rock-work,  being  heaps  of  ivy-grown 
stones  and  fossils,  designed  for  romantic 
effect  in  a  small  way.  Two  or  three  of 
such  village  streets  as  are  here  described 
take  a  collective  name,  —  as,  for  instance, 
Blackheath  Park, — and  constitute  a  kind 
of  community  of  residents,  with  gateways, 
kept  by  a  policeman,  and  a  semi-privacy, 
stepping  beyond  which,  you  find  yourself 
on  the  breezy  heath. 

On  this  great,  bare,  dreary  common  I 
often  went  astray,  as  I  afterwards  did  on 
the  Campagna  of  Rome,  and  drew  the  air 
(tainted  with  London  smoke  though  it 
might  be)  into  my  lungs  by  deep  inspira- 


372  OUR   OLD  HOME 

tions,  with  a  strange  and  unexpected  sense 
of  desert  freedom.  The  misty  atmosphere 
helps  you  to  fancy  a  remoteness  that  per 
haps  does  not  quite  exist.  During  the  little 
time  that  it  lasts,  the  solitude  is  as  impres 
sive  as  that  of  a  Western  prairie  or  forest  ; 
but  soon  the  railway  shriek,  a  mile  or  two 
away,  insists  upon  informing  you  of  your 
whereabout  ;  or  you  recognize  in  the  dis 
tance  some  landmark  that  you  may  have 
known, — an  insulated  villa,  perhaps,  with 
its  garden-wall  around  it,  or  the  rudimental 
street  of  a  new  settlement  which  is  sprout 
ing  on  this  otherwise  barren  soil.  Half 
a  century  ago,  the  most  frequent  token 
of  man's  beneficent  contiguity  might  have 
been  a  gibbet,  and  the  creak,  like  a  tavern 
sign,  of  a  murderer  swinging  to  and  fro  in 
irons.  Blackheath,  with  its  highwaymen 
and  footpads,  was  dangerous  in  those  days  ; 
and  even  now,  for  aught  I  know,  the  West 
ern  prairie  may  still  compare  favorably  with 
it  as  a  safe  region  to  go  astray  in.  When 
I  was  acquainted  with  Blackheath,  the  in 
genious  device  of  garroting  had  recently 
come  into  fashion  ;  and  I  can  remember, 
while  crossing  those  waste  places  at  mid 
night,  and  hearing  footsteps  behind  me,  to 
have  been  sensibly  encouraged  by  also 


A   LONDON  SUBUKB  373 

hearing,  not  far  off,  the  clinking  hoof-tramp 
of  one  of  the  horse-patrols  who  do  regular 
duty  there.  About  sunset,  or  a  little  later, 
was  the  time  when  the  broad  and  some 
what  desolate  peculiarity  of  the  heath 
seemed  to  me  to  put  on  its  utmost  impres- 
siveness.  At  that  hour,  finding  myself  on 
elevated  ground,  I  once  had  a  view  of 
immense  London,  four  or  five  miles  off, 
with  the  vast  Dome  in  the  midst,  and  the 
towers  of  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament 
rising  up  into  the  smoky  canopy,  the  thin 
ner  substance  of  which  obscured  a  mass  of 
things,  and  hovered  about  the  objects  that 
were  most  distinctly  visible,  —  a  glorious 
and  sombre  picture,  dusky,  awful,  but  irre 
sistibly  attractive,  like  a  young  man's  dream 
of  the  great  world,  foretelling  at  that  dis 
tance  a  grandeur  never  to  be  fully  realized. 
While  I  lived  in  that  neighborhood,  the 
tents  of  two  or  three  sets  of  cricket-players 
were  constantly  pitched  on  Blackheath,  and 
matches  were  going  forward  that  seemed 
to  involve  the  honor  and  credit  of  com 
munities  or  counties,  exciting  an  interest 
in  everybody  but  myself,  who  cared  not 
what  part  of  England  might  glorify  itself 
at  the  expense  of  another.  It  is  necessary 
to  be  born  an  Englishman,  I  believe,  in 


374  OUR  OLD  HOME 

order  to  enjoy  this  great  national  game  ;  at 
any  rate,  as  a  spectacle  for  an  outside  ob 
server,  I  found  it  lazy,  lingering,  tedious, 
and  utterly  devoid  of  pictorial  effects. 
Choice  of  other  amusements  was  at  hand. 
Butts  for  archery  were  established,  and 
bows  and  arrows  were  to  be  let,  at  so  many 
shots  for  a  penny,  — there  being  abundance 
of  space  for  a  farther  flight-shot  than  any 
modern  archer  can  lend  to  his  shaft.  Then 
there  was  an  absurd  game  of  throwing  a 
stick  at  crockery-ware,  which  I  have  wit 
nessed  a  hundred  times,  and  personally 
engaged  in  once  or  twice,  without  ever 
having  the  satisfaction  to  see  a  bit  of 
broken  crockery.  In  other  spots  you  found 
donkeys  for  children  to  ride,  and  ponies  of 
a  very  meek  and  patient  spirit,  on  which 
the  Cockney  pleasure-seekers  of  both  sexes 
rode  races  and  made  wonderful  displays  of 
horsemanship.  By  way  of  refreshment 
there  was  gingerbread  (but,  as  a  true  pa 
triot,  I  must  pronounce  it  greatly  inferior 
to  our  native  dainty),  and  ginger -beer, 
and  probably  stancher  liquor  among  the 
booth-keeper's  hidden  stores.  The  fre 
quent  railway  -  trains,  as  well  as  the  nu 
merous  steamers  to  Greenwich,  have  made 
the  vacant  portions  of  Blackheath  a  play- 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  375 

ground  and  breathing-place  for  the  Lon 
doners,  readily  and  very  cheaply  accessible  ; 
so  that,  in  view  of  this  broader  use  and 
enjoyment,  I  a  little  grudged  the  tracts 
that  have  been  niched  away,  so  to  speak, 
and  individualized  by  thriving  citizens. 
One  sort  of  visitors  especially  interested 
me :  they  were  schools  of  little  boys  or 
girls,  under  the  guardianship  of  their  in 
structors,  —  charity  schools,  as  I  often  sur 
mised  from  their  aspect,  collected  among 
dark  alleys  and  squalid  courts ;  and  hither 
they  were  brought  to  spend  a  summer  af 
ternoon,  these  pale  little  progeny  of  the 
sunless  nooks  of  London,  who  had  never 
known  that  the  sky  was  any  broader  than 
that  narrow  and  vapory  strip  above  their 
native  lane.  I  fancied  that  they  took  but 
a  doubtful  pleasure,  being  half  affrighted 
at  the  wide,  empty  space  overhead  and 
round  about  them,  finding  the  air  too  little 
medicated  with  smoke,  soot,  and  graveyard 
exhalations,  to  be  breathed  with  comfort, 
and  feeling  shelterless  and  lost  because 
grimy  London,  their  slatternly  and  disrep 
utable  mother,  had  suffered  them  to  stray 
out  of  her  arms. 

Passing  among  these  holiday  people,  we 
come  to  one  of  the  gateways  of  Greenwich 


376  OUR   OLD   HOME 

Park,  opening  through  an  old  brick  wall. 
It  admits  us  from  the  bare  heath  into  a 
scene  of  antique  cultivation  and  woodland 
ornament,  traversed  in  all  directions  by 
avenues  of  trees,  many  of  which  bear  to 
kens  of  a  venerable  age.  These  broad  and 
well-kept  pathways  rise  and  decline  over 
the  elevations,  and  along  the  bases  of 
gentle  hills,  which  diversify  the  whole  sur 
face  of  the  park.  The  loftiest  and  most 
abrupt  of  them  (though  but  of  very  mod 
erate  height)  is  one  of  the  earth's  noted 
summits,  and  may  hold  up  its  head  with 
Mont  Blanc  and  Chimborazo,  as  being  the 
site  of  Greenwich  Observatory,  where,  if 
all  nations  will  consent  to  say  so,  the  longi 
tude  of  our  great  globe  begins.  I  used  to 
regulate  my  watch  by  the  broad  dial-plate 
against  the  observatory  wall,  and  felt  it 
pleasant  to  be  standing  at  the  very  centre 
of  Time  and  Space. 

There  are  lovelier  parks  than  this  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  richer  scenes  of 
greensward  and  cultivated  trees  ;  and  Ken 
sington,  especially,  in  a  summer  afternoon, 
has  seemed  to  me  as  delightful  as  any 
place  can  or  ought  to  be,  in  a  world  which, 
some  time  or  other,  we  must  quit.  But 
Greenwich,  too,  is  beautiful,  —  a  spot  where 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  3/7 

the  art  of  man  has  conspired  with  Nature, 
as  if  he  and  the  great  mother  had  taken 
counsel  together  how  to  make  a  pleasant 
scene,  and  the  longest  liver  of  the  two  had 
faithfully  carried  out  their  mutual  design. 
It  has,  likewise,  an  additional  charm  of  its 
own,  because,  to  all  appearance,  it  is  the 
people's  property  and  play -ground  in  a 
much  more  genuine  way  than  the  aristo 
cratic  resorts  in  closer  vicinity  to  the  me 
tropolis.  It  affords  one  of  the  instances 
in  which  the  monarch's  property  is  actually 
the  people's,  and  shows  how  much  more 
natural  is  their  relation  to  the  sovereign 
than  to  the  nobility,  which  pretends  to 
hold  the  intervening  space  between  the 
two  :  for  a  nobleman  makes  a  paradise 
only  for  himself,  and  fills  it  with  his  own 
pomp  and  pride ;  whereas  the  people  are 
sooner  or  later  the  legitimate  inheritors  of 
whatever  beauty  kings  and  queens  create, 
as  now  of  Greenwich  Park.  On  Sundays, 
when  the  sun  shone,  and  even  on  those 
grim  and  sombre  days  when,  if  it  do  not 
actually  rain,  the  English  persist  in  calling 
it  fine  weather,  it  was  too  good  to  see  how 
sturdily  the  plebeians  trod  under  their  own 
oaks,  and  what  fullness  of  simple  enjoy 
ment  they  evidently  found  there.  They 


3/8  OUR   OLD   HOME 

were  the  people,  —  not  the  populace,  — 
specimens  of  a  class  whose  Sunday  clothes 
are  a  distinct  kind  of  garb  from  their  week 
day  ones  :  and  this,  in  England,  implies 
wholesome  habits  of  life,  daily  thrift,  and 
a  rank  above  the  lowest.  I  longed  to  be 
acquainted  with  them,  in  order  to  investi 
gate  what  manner  of  folks  they  were,  what 
sort  of  households  they  kept,  their  politics, 
their  religion,  their  tastes,  and  whether 
they  were  as  narrow-minded  as  their  bet 
ters.  There  can  be  very  little  doubt  of 
it ;  an  Englishman  is  English,  in  whatever 
rank  of  life,  though  no  more  intensely  so, 
I  should  imagine,  as  an  artisan  or  petty 
shopkeeper,  than  as  a  member  of  Parlia 
ment. 

The  English  character,  as  I  conceive  it, 
is  by  no  means  a  very  lofty  one  ;  they 
seem  to  have  a  great  deal  of  earth  and 
grimy  dust  clinging  about  them,  as  was 
probably  the  case  with  the  stalwart  and 
quarrelsome  people  who  sprouted  up  out  of 
the  soil,  after  Cadmus  had  sown  the  drag 
on's  teeth.  And  yet,  though  the  individ 
ual  Englishman  is  sometimes  preternatu- 
rally  disagreeable,  an  observer  standing 
aloof  has  a  sense  of  natural  kindness  to 
wards  them  in  the  lump.  They  adhere 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  379 

closer  to  the  original  simplicity  in  which 
mankind  was  created  than  we  ourselves 
do  ;  they  love,  quarrel,  laugh,  cry,  and  turn 
their  actual  selves  inside  out  with  greater 
freedom  than  any  class  of  Americans  would 
consider  decorous.  It  was  often  so  with 
these  holiday  folks  in  Greenwich  Park ; 
and,  ridiculous  as  it  may  sound,  I  fancy 
myself  to  have  caught  very  satisfactory 
glimpses  of  Arcadian  life  among  the  Cock 
neys  there,  hardly  beyond  the  scope  of 
Bow -Bells,  picnicking  in  the  grass,  un- 
couthly  gamboling  on  the  broad  slopes,  or 
straying  in  motley  groups  or  by  single 
pairs  of  love-making  youths  and  maidens, 
along  the  sun-streaked  avenues.  Even  the 
omnipresent  policemen  or  park  -  keepers 
could  not  disturb  the  beatific  impression 
on  my  mind.  One  feature,  at  all  events, 
of  the  Golden  Age  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
herds  of  deer  that  encountered  you  in  the 
somewhat  remoter  recesses  of  the  park, 
and  were  readily  prevailed  upon  to  nibble 
a  bit  of  bread  out  of  your  hand.  But, 
though  no  wrong  had  ever  been  done  them, 
and  no  horn  had  sounded  nor  hound  bayed 
at  the  heels  of  themselves  or  their  antlered 
progenitors  for  centuries  past,  there  was 
still  an  apprehensiveness  lingering  in  their 


380  OUR   OLD   HOME 

hearts ;  so  that  a  slight  movement  of  the 
hand  or  a  step  too  near  would  send  a  whole 
squadron  of  them  scampering  away,  just  as 
a  breath  scatters  the  winged  seeds  of  a 
dandelion. 

The  aspect  of  Greenwich  Park,  with  all 
those  festal  people  wandering  through  it, 
resembled  that  of  the  Borghese  Gardens 
under  the  walls  of  Rome,  on  a  Sunday  or 
Saint's  day ;  but,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say, 
it  a  little  disturbed  whatever  grimly  ghost 
of  Puritanic  strictness  might  be  lingering 
in  the  sombre  depths-  of  a  New  England 
heart,  among  severe  and  sunless  remem 
brances  of  the  Sabbaths  of  childhood,  and 
pangs  of  remorse  for  ill-gotten  lessons  in 
the  catechism,  and  for  erratic  fantasies  or 
hardly  suppressed  laughter  in  the  middle 
of  long  sermons.  Occasionally,  I  tried  to 
take  the  long-hoarded  sting  out  of  these 
compunctious  smarts  by  attending  divine 
service  in  the  open  air.  On  a  cart  outside 
of  the  park-wall  (and,  if  I  mistake  not,  at 
two  or  three  corners  and  secluded  spots 
within  the  park  itself)  a  Methodist  preacher 
uplifts  his  voice  and  speedily  gathers  a  con 
gregation,  his  zeal  for  whose  religious  wel 
fare  impels  the  good  man  to  such  earnest 
vociferation  and  toilsome  gesture  that  his 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  381 

perspiring  face  is  quickly  in  a  stew.  His 
inward  flame  conspires  with  the  too  fervid 
sun,  and  makes  a  positive  martyr  of  him, 
even  in  the  very  exercise  of  his  pious 
labor ;  insomuch  that  he  purchases  every 
atom  of  spiritual  increment  to  his  hearers 
by  loss  of  his  own  corporeal  solidity,  and, 
should  his  discourse  last  long  enough,  must 
finally  exhale  before  their  eyes.  If  I  smile 
at  him,  be  it  understood,  it  is  not  in  scorn  ; 
he  performs  his  sacred  office  more  accept 
ably  than  many  a  prelate.  These  wayside 
services  attract  numbers  who  would  not 
otherwise  listen  to  prayer,  sermon,  or 
hymn,  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  and 
who,  for  that  very  reason,  are  the  auditors 
most  likely  to  be  moved  by  the  preacher's 
eloquence.  Yonder  Greenwich  pensioner, 
too,  —  in  his  costume  of  three  -  cornered 
hat,  and  old-fashioned,  brass-buttoned  blue 
coat  with  ample  skirts,  which  makes  him 
look  like  a  contemporary  of  Admiral  Ben- 
bow,  —  that  tough  old  mariner  may  hear  a 
word  or  two  which  will  go  nearer  his  heart 
than  anything  that  the  chaplain  of  the 
Hospital  can  be  expected  to  deliver.  I  al 
ways  noticed,  moreover,  that  a  considera 
ble  proportion  of  the  audience  were  sol 
diers,  who  came  hither  with  a  day's  leave 


382  OUR   OLD  HOME 

from  Woolwich,  —  hardy  veterans  in  as 
pect,  some  of  whom  wore  as  marfy  as  four 
or  five  medals,  Crimean  or  East  Indian,  on 
the  breasts  of  their  scarlet  coats.  The  mis 
cellaneous  congregation  listen  with  every 
appearance  of  heartfelt  interest ;  and,  for 
my  own  part,  I  must  frankly  acknowledge 
that  I  never  found  it  possible  to  give  five 
minutes'  attention  to  any  other  English 
preaching :  so  cold  and  commonplace  are 
the  homilies  that  pass  for  such,  under  the 
aged  roofs  of  churches.  And  as  for  cathe 
drals,  the  sermon  is  an  exceedingly  diminu 
tive  and  unimportant  part  of  the  religious 
services,  —  if,  indeed,  it  be  considered  a 
part,  —  among  the  pompous  ceremonies, 
the  intonations,  and  the  resounding  and 
lofty-voiced  strains  of  the  choristers.  The 
magnificence  of  the  setting  quite  dazzles 
out  what  we  Puritans  look  upon  as  the 
jewel  of  the  whole  affair  ;  for  I  presume 
that  it  was  our  forefathers,  the  Dissenters 
in  England  and  America,  who  gave  the 
sermon  its  present  prominence  in  the  Sab 
bath  exercises.1 

1  We  all,  together  with  Mr.  Squarey,  went  to  Chester 
last  Sunday,  and  attended  the  cathedral  service.  .  .  . 
In  America  the  sermon  is  the  principal  thing ;  but  here 
all  this  magnificent  ceremonial  of  prayer  and  chanted 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  383 

The  Methodists  are  probably  the  first 
and  only  Englishmen  who  have  worshiped 
in  the  open  air  since  the  ancient  Britons 
listened  to  the  preaching  of  the  Druids  ; 
and  it  reminded  me  of  that  old  priesthood, 
to  see  certain  memorials  of  their  dusky 
epoch  —  not  religious,  however,  but  war 
like  —  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  spot 
where  the  Methodist  was  holding  forth. 
These  were  some  ancient  barrows,  beneath 
or  within  which  are  supposed  to  lie  buried 
the  slain  of  a  forgotten  or  doubtfully  re 
membered  battle,  fought  on  the  site  of 
Greenwich  Park  as  long  ago  as  two  or 
three  centuries  after  the  birth  of  Christ. 
Whatever  may  once  have  been  their  height 
and  magnitude,  they  have  now  scarcely 
more  prominence  in  the  actual  scene  than 
the  battle  of  which  they  are  the  sole  mon 
uments  retains  in  history,  —  being  only  a 
few  mounds  side  by  side,  elevated  a  little 
above  the  surface  of  the  •  ground,  ten  or 
twelve  feet  in  diameter,  with  a  shallow  de 
pression  in  their  summits.  When  one  of 
them  was  opened,  not  long  since,  no  bones, 

responses  and  psalms  and  anthems  was  the  setting  to  a 
short,  meagre  discourse,  which  would  not  have  been  con 
sidered  of  any  account  among  the  elaborate  intellectual 
efforts  of  New  England  ministers.  —  I.  466. 


384  OUR   OLD  HOME 

nor  armor,  nor  weapons  were  discovered, 
nothing  but  some  small  jewels,  and  a  tuft 
of  hair,  —  perhaps  from  the  head  of  a  val 
iant  general,  who,  dying  on  the  field  of  his 
victory,  bequeathed  this  lock,  together  with 
his  indestructible  fame,  to  after  ages.  The 
hair  and  jewels  are  probably  in  the  British 
Museum,  where  the  potsherds  and  rubbish 
of  innumerable  generations  make  the  vis 
itor  wish  that  each  passing  century  could 
carry  off  all  its  fragments  and  relics  along 
with  it,  instead  of  adding  them  to  the  con 
tinually  accumulating  burden  which  human 
knowledge  is  compelled  to  lug  upon  its 
back.1  As  for  the  fame,  I  know  not  what 
has  become  of  it. 

1  The  fact  is,  the  world  is  accumulating  too  many 
materials  for  knowledge.  We  do  not  recognize  for  rub 
bish  what  is  really  rubbish ;  and  under  this  head  might 
be  reckoned  very  many  things  one  sees  in  the  British 
Museum  :  and,  as  each  generation  leaves  its  fragments 
and  potsherds  behind  it,  such  will  finally  be  the  desper 
ate  conclusion  of  the  learned.  —  II.  143. 

Yesterday  I  went  out  at  about  twelve,  and  visited 
the  British  Museum ;  an  exceedingly  tiresome  affair. 
It  quite  crushes  a  person  to  see  so  much  at  once,  and 
I  wandered  from  hall  to  hall  with  a  weary  and  heavy 
heart,  wishing  (Heaven  forgive  me  !)  that  the  Elgin 
Marbles  and  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  were  all  burnt 
into  lime,  and  that  the  granite  Egyptian  statues  were 
hewn  and  squared  into  building-stones,  and  that  the 
mummies  had  all  turned  to  dust  two  thousand  years 


A  LONDON  SUBURB  385 

After  traversing  the  park,  we  come  into 
the  neighborhood  of  Greenwich  Hospital, 
and  will  pass  through  one  of  its  spacious 
gateways  for  the  sake  of  glancing  at  an  es 
tablishment  which  does  more  honor  to  the 
heart  of  England  than  anything  else  that 
I  am  acquainted  with,  of  a  public  nature. 
It  is  very  seldom  that  we  can  be  sensible 
of  anything  like  kindliness  in  the  acts  or 
relations  of  such  an  artificial  thing  as  a 
National  Government.  Our  own  govern 
ment,  I  should  conceive,  is  too  much  an 
abstraction  ever  to  feel  any  sympathy  for 
its  maimed  sailors  and  soldiers,  though  it 
will  doubtless  do  them  a  severe  kind  of 
justice,  as  chilling  as  the  touch  of  steel. 
But  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  Greenwich 
pensioners  are  the  petted  children  of  the 
nation,  and  that  the  government  is  their 
dry-nurse,  and  that  the  old  men  themselves 
have  a  child-like  consciousness  of  their 

ago ;  and,  in  fine,  that  all  the  material  relics  of  so  many 
successive  ages  had  disappeared  with  the  generations 
that  produced  them.  The  present  is  burdened  too 
much  with  the  past.  We  have  not  time,  in  our  earthly 
existence,  to  appreciate  what  is  warm  with  life,  and  im 
mediately  around  us ;  yet  we  heap  up  these  old  shells, 
out  of  which  human  life  has  long  emerged,  casting  them 
off  forever.  I  do  not  see  how  future  ages  are  to  stagger 
onward  under  all  this  dead  weight,  with  the  additions 
that  will  be  continually  made  to  it.  —  II.  207. 


386  OUR   OLD  HOME 

position.  Very  likely,  a  better  sort  of  life 
might  have  been  arranged,  and  a  wiser 
care  bestowed  on  them  ;  but,  such  as  it  is, 
it  enables  them  to  spend  a  sluggish,  care 
less,  comfortable  old  age,  grumbling,  growl 
ing,  gruff,  as  if  all  the  foul  weather  of  their 
past  years  were  pent  up  within  them,  yet 
not  much  more  discontented  than  such 
weather-beaten  and  battle  -  battered  frag 
ments  of  human  kind  must  inevitably  be. 
Their  home,  in  its  outward  form,  is  on  a 
very  magnificent  plan.  Its  germ  was  a 
royal  palace,  the  full  expansion  of  which 
has  resulted  in  a  series  of  edifices  externally 
more  beautiful  than  any  English  palace 
that  I  have  seen,  consisting  of  several 
quadrangles  of  stately  architecture,  united 
by  colonnades  and  gravel  -  walks,  and  in 
closing  grassy  squares,  with  statues  in  the 
centre,  the  whole  extending  along  the 
Thames.  It  is  built  of  marble,  or  very 
light  -  colored  stone,  in  the  classic  style, 
with  pillars  and  porticos,  which  (to  my  own 
taste,  and,  I  fancy,  to  that  of  the  old  sail 
ors)  produce  but  a  cold  and  shivery  effect 
in  the  English  climate.  Had  I  been  the 
architect,  I  would  have  studied  the  charac 
ters,  habits,  and  predilections  of  nautical 
people  in  Wapping,  Rotherhithe,  and  the 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  387 

neighborhood  of  the  Tower  (places  which 
I  visited  in  affectionate  remembrance  of 
Captain  Lemuel  Gulliver,  and  other  actual 
or  mythological  navigators),  and  would 
have  built  the  hospital  in  a  kind  of  ethe 
real  similitude  to  the  narrow,  dark,  ugly, 
and  inconvenient,  but  snug  and  cosey  home 
liness  of  the  sailor  boarding-houses  there. 
There  can  be  no  question  that  all  the  above 
attributes,  or  enough  of  them  to  satisfy  an 
old  sailor's  heart,  might  be  reconciled  with 
architectural  beauty  and  the  wholesome 
contrivances  of  modern  dwellings,  and  thus 
a  novel  and  genuine  style  of  building  be 
given  to  the  world. 

But  their  countrymen  meant  kindly  by 
the  old  fellows  in  assigning  them  the  an 
cient  royal  site  where  Elizabeth  held  her 
court  and  Charles  II.  began  to  build  his 
palace.  So  far  as  the  locality  went,  it  was 
treating  them  like  so  many  kings ;  and, 
with  a  discreet  abundance  of  grog,  beer, 
and  tobacco,  there  was  perhaps  little  more 
to  be  accomplished  in  behalf  of  men  whose 
whole  previous  lives  have  tended  to  unfit 
them  for  old  age.  Their  chief  discomfort 
is  probably  for  lack  of  something  to  do  or 
think  about.  But,  judging  by  the  few 
whom  I  saw,  a  listless  habit  seems  to  have 


388  OUR   OLD  HOME 

crept  over  them,  a  dim  dreaminess  of 
mood,  in  which  they  sit  between  asleep 
and  awake,  and  find  the  long  day  wearing 
towards  bedtime  without  its  having  made 
any  distinct  record  of  itself  upon  their 
consciousness.  Sitting  on  stone  benches 
in  the  sunshine,  they  subside  into  slumber, 
or  nearly  so,  and  start  at  the  approach  of 
footsteps  echoing  under  the  colonnades, 
ashamed  to  be  caught  napping,  and  rous 
ing  themselves  in  a  hurry,  as  formerly  on 
the  midnight  watch  at  sea.  In  their  bright 
est  moments,  they  gather  in  groups  and 
bore  one  another  with  endless  sea -yarns 
about  their  voyages  under  famous  admirals, 
and  about  gale  and  calm,  battle  and  chase, 
and  all  that  class  of  incident  that  has  its 
sphere  on  the  deck  and  in  the  hollow  in 
terior  of  a  ship,  where  their  world  has  ex 
clusively  been.  For  other  pastime,  they 
quarrel  among  themselves,  comrade  with 
comrade,  and  perhaps  shake  paralytic  fists 
in  furrowed  faces.  If  inclined  for  a  little 
exercise,  they  can  bestir  their  wooden  legs 
on  the  long  esplanade  that  borders  by  the 
Thames,  criticising  the  rig  of  passing  ships, 
and  firing  off  volleys  of  malediction  at  the 
steamers,  which  have  made  the  sea  another 
element  than  that  they  used  to  be  ac- 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  389 

quainted  with.  All  this  is  but  cold  com 
fort  for  the  evening  of  life,  yet  may  com 
pare  rather  favorably  with  the  preceding 
portions  of  it,  comprising  little  save  im 
prisonment  on  shipboard,  in  the  course  of 
which  they  have  been  tossed  all  about  the 
world  and  caught  hardly  a  glimpse  of  it, 
forgetting  what  grass  and  trees  are,  and 
never  finding  out  what  woman  is,  though 
they  may  have  encountered  a  painted  spec 
tre  which  they  took  for  her.  A  country 
owes  much  to  human  beings  whose  bodies 
she  has  worn  out  and  whose  immortal  part 
she  has  left  undeveloped  or  debased,  as 
we  find  them  here  ;  and  having  wasted  an 
idle  paragraph  upon  them,  let  me  now  sug 
gest  that  old  men  have  a  kind  of  suscepti 
bility  to  moral  impressions,  and  even  (up 
to  an  advanced  period)  a  receptivity  of 
truth,  which  often  appears  to  come  to  them 
after  the  active  time  of  life  is  past.  The 
Greenwich  pensioners  might  prove  better 
subjects  for  true  education  now  than  in 
their  schoolboy  days  ;  but  then  where  is 
the  Normal  School  that  could  educate  in 
structors  for  such  a  class  ? 

There  is  a  beautiful  chapel  for  the  pen 
sioners,  in  the  classic  style,  over  the  altar 
of  which  hangs  a  picture  by  West.  I 


390  OUR  OLD  HOME 

never  could  look  at  it  long  enough  to  make 
out  its  design  ;  for  this  artist  (though  it 
pains  me  to  say  it  of  so  respectable  a 
countryman)  had  a  gift  of  frigidity,  a  knack 
of  grinding  ice  into  his  paint,  a  power  of 
stupefying  the  spectator's  perceptions  and 
quelling  his  sympathy,  beyond  any  other 
limner  that  ever  handled  a  brush.  In  spite 
of  many  pangs  of  conscience,  I  seize  this 
opportunity  to  wreak  a  lifelong  abhorrence 
upon  the  poor,  blameless  man,  for  the  sake 
of  that  dreary  picture  of  Lear,  an  explosion 
of  frosty  fury,  that  used  to  be  a  bugbear  to 
me  in  the  Athenaeum  Exhibition.  Would 
fire  burn  it,  I  wonder  ? 

The  principal  thing  that  they  have  to 
show  you,  at  Greenwich  Hospital,  is  the 
Painted  Hall.  It  is  a  splendid  and  spacious 
room,  at  least  a  hundred  feet  long  and  half 
as  high,  with  a  ceiling  painted  in  fresco  by 
Sir  James  Thornhill.  As  a  work  of  art,  I 
presume,  this  frescoed  canopy  has  little 
merit,  though  it  produces  an  exceedingly 
rich  effect  by  its  brilliant  coloring  and  as  a 
specimen  of  magnificent  upholstery.  The 
walls  of  the  grand  apartment  are  entirely 
covered  with  pictures,  many  of  them  repre 
senting  battles  and  other  naval  incidents 
that  were  once  fresher  in  the  world's  mem- 


A  LONDON  SUBURB  391 

ory  than  now,  but  chiefly  portraits  of  old 
admirals,  comprising  the  whole  line  of  he 
roes  who  have  trod  the  quarter-decks  of 
British  ships  for  more  than  two  hundred 
years  back.  Next  to  a  tomb  in  Westmin 
ster  Abbey,  which  was  Nelson's  most  ele 
vated  object  of  ambition,  it  would  seem  to 
be  the  highest  meed  of  a  naval  warrior  to 
have  his  portrait  hung  up  in  the  Painted 
Hall ;  but,  by  dint  of  victory  upon  victory, 
these  illustrious  personages  have  grown  to 
be  a  mob,  and  by  no  means  a  very  inter 
esting  one,  so  far  as  regards  the  character 
of  the  faces  here  depicted.  They  are  gen 
erally  commonplace,  and  often  singularly 
stolid ;  and  I  have  observed  (both  in  the 
Painted  Hall  and  elsewhere,  and  not  only 
in  portraits,  but  in  the  actual  presence  of 
such  renowned  people  as  I  have  caught 
glimpses  of)  that  the  countenances  of  he 
roes  are  not  nearly  so  impressive  as  those 
of  statesmen,  —  except,  of  course,  in  the 
rare  instances  where  warlike  ability  has 
been  but  the  one-sided  manifestation  of  a 
profound  genius  for  managing  the  world's 
affairs. 

Nine  tenths  of  these  distinguished  ad 
mirals,  for  instance,  if  their  faces  tell 
truth,  must  needs  have  been  blockheads, 


392 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


and  might  have  served  better,  one  would 
imagine,  as  wooden  figure-heads  for  their 
own  ships  than  to  direct  any  difficult  and 
intricate  scheme  of  action  from  the  quar 
ter-deck.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  same 
kind  of  men  will  hereafter  meet  with  a 
similar  degree  of  success ;  for  they  were 
victorious  chiefly  through  the  old  English 
hardihood,  exercised  in  a  field  of  which 
modern  science  had  not  yet  got  possession. 
Rough  valor  has  lost  something  of  its  value 
since  their  days,  and  must  continue  to  sink 
lower  and  lower  in  the  comparative  esti 
mate  of  warlike  qualities.  In  the  next 
naval  war,  as  between  England  and  France, 
I  would  bet,  methinks,  upon  the  French 
man's  head. 

It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  the  great 
naval  hero  of  England  —  the  greatest, 
therefore,  in  the  world,  and  of  all  time 
-  had  none  of  the  stolid  characteristics 
that  belong  to  his  class,  and  cannot  fairly 
be  accepted  as  their  representative  man. 
Foremost  in  the  roughest  of  professions, 
he  was  as  delicately  organized  as  a  woman, 
and  as  painfully  sensitive  as  a  poet.  More 
than  any  other  Englishman  he  won  the  love 
and  admiration  of  his  country,  but  won 
them  through  the  efficacy  of  qualities  that 


LORD    NELSON 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  393 

are  not  English,  or,  at  all  events,  were 
intensified  in  his  case  and  made  poignant 
and  powerful  by  something  morbid  in  the 
man,  which  put  him  otherwise  at  cross- 
purposes  with  life.  He  was  a  man  of 
genius ;  and  genius  in  an  Englishman  (not 
to  cite  the  good  old  simile  of  a  pearl  in  ihe 
oyster)  is  usually  a  symptom  of  a  lack  of 
balance  in  the  general  making-up  of  the 
character  ;  as  we  may  satisfy  ourselves  by 
running  over  the  list  of  their  poets,  for 
example,  and  observing  how  many  of  them 
have  been  sickly  or  deformed,  and  how 
often  their  lives  have  been  darkened  by 
insanity.  An  ordinary  Englishman  is  the 
healthiest  and  wholesomest  of  human  be 
ings  ;  an  extraordinary  one  is  almost  always, 
in  one  way  or  another,  a  sick  man.  It  was 
so  with  Lord  Nelson.  The  wonderful  con 
trast  or  relation  between  his  personal 
qualities,  the  position  which  he  held,  and 
the  life  that  he  lived,  makes  him  as  inter 
esting  a  personage  as  all  history  has  to 
show ;  and  it  is  a  pity  that  Southey's  biog 
raphy  —  so  good  in  its  superficial  way,  and 
yet  so  inadequate  as  regards  any  real  delin 
eation  of  the  man  —  should  have  taken  the 
subject  out  of  the  hands  of  some  writer 
endowed  with  more  delicate  appreciation 


394  OUR  OLD  HOME 

and  deeper  insight  than  that  genuine  Eng 
lishman  possessed.  But  Southey  accom 
plished  his  own  purpose,  which,  apparently, 
was  to  present  his  hero  as  a  pattern  for 
England's  young  midshipmen. 

But  the  English  capacity  for  hero-wor 
ship  is  full  to  the  brim  with  what  they 
are  able  to  comprehend  of  Lord  Nelson's 
character.  Adjoining  the  Painted  Hall  is 
a  smaller  room,  the  walls  of  which  are 
completely  and  exclusively  adorned  with 
pictures  of  the  great  Admiral's  exploits. 
We  see  the  frail,  ardent  man  in  all  the 
most  noted  events  of  his  career,  from  his 
encounter  with  a  Polar  Bear  to  his  death 
at  Trafalgar,  quivering  here  and  there  about 
the  room  like  a  blue,  lambent  flame.  No 
Briton  ever  enters  that  apartment  without 
feeling  the  beef  and  ale  of  his  composition 
stirred  to  its  depths,  and  finding  himself 
changed  into  a  hero  for  the  nonce,  however 
stolid  his  brain,  however  tough  his  heart, 
however  unexcitable  his  ordinary  mood. 
To  confess  the  truth,  I  myself,  though  be 
longing  to  another  parish,  have  been  deeply 
sensible  to  the  sublime  recollections  there 
aroused,  acknowledging  that  Nelson  ex 
pressed  his  life  in  a  kind  of  symbolic  poetry 
which  I  had  as  much  right  to  understand 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  395 

as  these  burly  islanders.1  Cool  and  critical 
observer  as  I  sought  to  be,  I  enjoyed  their 
burst  of  honest  indignation  when  a  visitor 
(not  an  American,  I  am  glad  to  say)  thrust 
his  walking-stick  almost  into  Nelson's  face, 
in  one  of  the  pictures,  by  way  of  pointing 
a  remark  ;  and  the  bystanders  immediately 
glowed  like  so  many  hot  coals,  and  would 
probably  have  consumed  the  offender  in 
their  wrath,  had  he  not  effected  his  retreat. 
But  the  most  sacred  objects  of  all  are 
two  of  Nelson's  coats,  under  separate  glass 
cases.  One  is  that  which  he  wore  at  the 
Battle  of  the  Nile,  and  it  is  now  sadly  in 
jured  by  moths,  which  will  quite  destroy  it 
in  a  few  years,  unless  its  guardians  preserve 
it  as  we  do  Washington's  military  suit  by 
occasionally  baking  it  in  an  oven.  The 
other  is  the  coat  in  which  he  received  his 
death-wound  at  Trafalgar.  On  its  breast 
are  sewed  three  or  four  stars  and  orders 
of  knighthood,  now  much  dimmed  by  time 
and  damp,  but  which  glittered  brightly 
enough  on  the  battle-day  to  draw  the  fatal 

1  Even  the  great  sailor,  Nelson,  was  unlike  his  country 
men  in  the  qualities  that  constituted  him  a  hero;  he 
was  not  the  perfection  of  an  Englishman,  but  a  creature 
of  another  kind,  —  sensitive,  nervous,  excitable,  and 
really  more  like  a  Frenchman.  —  II.  531. 


396  OUR   OLD   HOME 

aim  of  a  French  marksman.  The  bullet- 
hole  is  visible  on  the  shoulder,  as  well  as  a 
part  of  the  golden  tassels  of  an  epaulet,  the 
rest  of  which  was  shot  away.  Over  the 
coat  is  laid  a  white  waistcoat,  with  a  great 
blood-stain  on  it,  out  of  which  all  the  red 
ness  has  utterly  faded,  leaving  it  of  a  dingy 
yellow  hue,  in  the  threescore  years  since 
that  blood  gushed  out.  Yet  it  was  once 
the  reddest  blood  in  England,  —  Nelson's 
blood  ! 

The  hospital  stands  close  adjacent  to  the 
town  of  Greenwich,  which  will  always  re 
tain  a  kind  of  festal  aspect  in  my  memory, 
in  consequence  of  my  having  first  become 
acquainted  with  it  on  Easter  Monday.  Till 
a  few  years  ago,  the  first  three  days  of 
Easter  were  a  carnival  season  in  this  old 
town,  during  which  the  idle  and  disrepu 
table  part  of  London  poured  itself  into  the 
streets  like  an  inundation  of  the  Thames, 
—  as  unclean  as  that  turbid  mixture  of  the 
offscourings  of  the  vast  city,  and  overflow 
ing  with  its  grimy  pollution  whatever  rural 
innocence,  if  any,  might  be  found  in  the 
suburban  neighborhood.  This  festivity  was 
called  Greenwich  Fair,  the  final  one  of 
which,  in  an  immemorial  succession,  it  was 
my  fortune  to  behold. 


A  LONDON  SUBURB  397 

If   I   had    bethought    myself   of    going 
through    the    fair    with   a   note-book   and 
pencil,  jotting  down  all  the  prominent  ob 
jects,  I  doubt  not  that  the  result  might  have 
been  a  sketch  of  English  life  quite  as  char 
acteristic  and  worthy  of  historical  preserva 
tion  as  an  account  of  the  Roman  Carnival. 
Having   neglected   to   do  so,  I  remember 
little  more  than  a  confusion  of  unwashed 
and   shabbily   dressed   people,    intermixed 
with    some    smarter   figures,    but,    on   the 
whole,  presenting  a   mobbish    appearance 
such  as  we  never  see  in  our  own  country. 
It    taught    me  to  understand  why  Shake 
speare,  in    speaking  of  a  crowd,  so  often 
alludes  to  its  attribute  of  evil  odor.     The 
common  people  of  England,  I  am  afraid, 
have    no    daily    familiarity    with    even    so 
necessary  a  thing  as  a  wash-bowl,  not  to 
mention  a  bathing-tub.     And,  furthermore, 
it  is  one  mighty  difference  between  them 
and  us,  that  every  man  and  woman  on  our 
side  of  the  water  has  a  working-day  suit 
and  a  holiday  suit,  and  is  occasionally  as 
fresh  as  a  rose,  whereas,  in  the  good  old 
country,  the  griminess  of  his  labor  or  squa 
lid  habits  clings  forever  to  the  individual, 
and  gets  to  be  a  part  of  his  personal  sub 
stance.     These  are  broad  facts,  involving 


398  OUR   OLD  HOME 

great  corollaries  and  dependencies.  There 
are  really,  if  you  stop  to  think  about  it,  few 
sadder  spectacles  in  the  world  than  a  rag 
ged  coat,  or  a  soiled  and  shabby  gown,  at  a 
festival. 

This  unfragrant  crowd  was  exceedingly 
dense,  being  welded  together,  as  it  were, 
in  the  street  through  which  we  strove  to 
make  our  way.  On  either  side  were  oyster- 
stands,  stalls  of  oranges  (a  very  prevalent 
fruit  in  England,  where  they  give  the  with 
ered  ones  a  guise  of  freshness  by  boiling 
them),  and  booths  covered  with  old  sail 
cloth,  in  which  the  commodity  that  most 
attracted  the  eye  was  gilt  gingerbread.  It 
was  so  completely  enveloped  in  Dutch 
gilding  that  I  did  not  at  first  recognize  an 
old  acquaintance,  but  wondered  what  those 
golden  crowns  and  images  could  be.  There 
were  likewise  drums  and  other  toys  for 
small  children,  and  a  variety  of  showy  and 
worthless  articles  for  children  of  a  larger 
growth ;  though  it  perplexed  me  to  imagine 
who,  in  such  a  mob,  could  have  the  inno 
cent  taste  to  desire  playthings,  or  the 
money  to  pay  for  them.  Not  that  I  have 
a  right  to  accuse  the  mob,  on  my  own 
knowledge,  of  being  any  less  innocent  than 
a  set  of  cleaner  and  better  dressed  people 


A    LONDON  SUBURB  399 

might  have  been ;  for,  though  one  of  them 
stole  my  pocket-handkerchief,  I  could  not 
but  consider  it  fair  game,  under  the  circum 
stances,  and  was  grateful  to  the  thief  for 
sparing  me  my  purse.  They  were  quiet, 
civil,  and  remarkably  good-humored,  mak 
ing  due  allowance  for  the  national  gruff- 
ness  ;  there  was  no  riot,  no  tumultuous 
swaying  to  and  fro  of  the  mass,  such  as  I 
have  often  noted  in  an  American  crowd  ; 
no  noise  of  voices,  except  frequent  bursts 
of  laughter,  hoarse  or  shrill,  and  a  widely 
diffused,  inarticulate  murmur,  resembling 
nothing  so  much  as  the  rumbling  of  the 
tide  among  the  arches  of  London  Bridge. 
What  immensely  perplexed  me  was  a  sharp, 
angry  sort  of  rattle,  in  all  quarters,  far  off 
and  close  at  hand,  and  sometimes  right  at 
my  own  back,  where  it  sounded  as  if  the 
stout  fabric  of  my  English  surtout  had 
been  ruthlessly  rent  in  twain  ;  and  every 
body's  clothes,  all  over  the  fair,  were  evi 
dently  being  torn  asunder  in  the  same  way. 
By  and  by,  I  discovered  that  this  strange 
noise  was  produced  by  a  little  instrument 
called  "  The  Fun  of  the  Fair,  "  —  a  sort  of 
rattle,  consisting  of  a  wooden  wheel,  the 
cogs  of  which  turn  against  a  thin  slip  of 
wood,  and  so  produce  a  rasping  sound  when 


400  OUR   OLD  HOME 

drawn  smartly  against  a  person's  back. 
The  ladies  draw  their  rattles  against  the 
backs  of  their  male  friends  (and  everybody 
passes  for  a  friend  at  Greenwich  Fair),  and 
the  young  men  return  the  compliment  on 
the  broad  British  backs  of  the  ladies  ;  and 
all  are  bound  by  immemorial  custom  to 
take  it  in  good  part  and  be  merry  at  the 
joke.  As  it  was  one  of  my  prescribed 
official  duties  to  give  an  account  of  such 
mechanical  contrivances  as  might  be  un 
known  in  my  own  country,  I  have  thought 
it  right  to  be  thus  particular  in  describing 
the  Fun  of  the  Fair. 

But  this  was  far  from  being  the  sole 
amusement.  There  were  theatrical  booths, 
in  front  of  which  were  pictorial  representa 
tions  of  the  scenes  to  be  enacted  within  ; 
and  anon  a  drummer  emerged  from  one  of 
them,  thumping  on  a  terribly  lax  drum, 
and  followed  by  the  entire  dramatis  per- 
soncB,  who  ranged  themselves  on  a  wooden 
platform  in  front  of  the  theatre.  They 
were  dressed  in  character,  but  wofully 
shabby,  with  very  dingy  arid  wrinkled 
white  tights,  threadbare  cotton  -  velvets, 
crumpled  silks,  and  crushed  muslin,  and 
all  the  gloss  and  glory  gone  out  of  their 
aspect  and  attire,  seen  thus  in  the  broad 


A  LONDON  SUBURB  40! 

daylight  and  after  a  long  series  of  perform 
ances.  They  sang  a  song  together,  and 
withdrew  into  the  theatre,  whither  the  pub 
lic  were  invited  to  follow  them  at  the  in 
considerable  cost  of  a  penny  a  ticket.  Be 
fore  another  booth  stood  a  pair  of  brawny 
fighting-men,  displaying  their  muscle,  and 
soliciting  patronage  for  an  exhibition  of 
the  noble  British  art  of  pugilism.  There 
were  pictures  of  giants,  monsters,  and  out 
landish  beasts,  most  prodigious,  to  be  sure, 
and  worthy  of  all  admiration,  unless  the 
artist  had  gone  incomparably  beyond  his 
subject.  Jugglers  proclaimed  aloud  the 
miracles  which  they  were  prepared  to 
work ;  and  posture-makers  dislocated  every 
joint  of  their  bodies  and  tied  their  limbs 
into  inextricable  knots,  wherever  they 
could  find  space  to  spread  a  little  square 
of  carpet  on  the  ground.  In  the  midst  of 
the  confusion,  while  everybody  was  tread 
ing  on  his  neighbor's  toes,  some  little  boys 
were  very  solicitous  to  brush  your  boots. 
These  lads,  I  believe,  are  a  product  of 
modern  society,  —  at  least,  no  older  than 
the  time  of  Gay,  who  celebrates  their  ori 
gin  in  his  "  Trivia  ; "  but  in  most  other 
respects  the  scene  reminded  me  of  Bun- 
yan's  description  of  Vanity  Fair,  —  nor  is 


4<D2  OUR   OLD  HOME 

it  at  all  improbable  that  the  Pilgrim  may 
have  been  a  merry-maker  here  in  his  wild 
youth. 

It  seemed  very  singular  —  though,  of 
course,  I  immediately  classified  it  as  an 
English  characteristic  —  to  see  a  great 
many  portable  weighing-machines,  the  own 
ers  of  which  cried  out  continually  and 
amain,  "  Come,  know  your  weight  !  Come, 
come,  know  your  weight  to-day  !  Come, 
know  your  weight !  "  and  a  multitude  of 
people,  mostly  large  in  the  girth,  were 
moved  by  this  vociferation  to  sit  down  in 
the  machines.  I  know  not  whether  they 
valued  themselves  on  their  beef,  and  es 
timated  their  standing  as  members  of  so 
ciety  at  so  much  a  pound  ;  but  I  shall  set  it 
down  as  a  national  peculiarity,  and  a  sym 
bol  of  the  prevalence  of  the  earthly  over 
the  spiritual  element,  that  Englishmen  are 
wonderfully  bent  on  knowing  how  solid  and 
physically  ponderous  they  are. 

On  the  whole,  having  an  appetite  for  the 
brown  bread  and  the  tripe  and  sausages 
of  life,  as  well  as  for  its  nicer  cates  and 
dainties,  I  enjoyed  the  scene,  and  was 
amused  at  the  sight  of  a  gruff  old  Green 
wich  pensioner,  who,  forgetful  of  the  sailor- 
frolics  of  his  young  days,  stood  looking 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  403 

with  grim  disapproval  at  all  these  vanities. 
Thus  we  squeezed  our  way  through  the 
mob-jammed  town,  and  emerged  into  the 
Park,  where,  likewise,  we  met  a  great  many 
merry-makers,  but  with  freer  space  for 
their  gambols  than  in  the  streets.  We 
soon  found  ourselves  the  targets  for  a  can 
nonade  with  oranges  (most  of  them  in  a 
decayed  condition),  which  went  humming 
past  our  ears  from  the  vantage-ground  of 
neighboring  hillocks,  sometimes  hitting  our 
sacred  persons  with  an  inelastic  thump. 
This  was  one  of  the  privileged  freedoms 
of  the  time,  and  was  nowise  to  be  resented, 
except  by  returning  the  salute.  Many  per 
sons  were  running  races,  hand  in  hand, 
down  the  declivities,  especially  that  steep 
est  one  on  the  summit  of  which  stands  the 
world-central  Observatory,  and  (as  in  the 
race  of  life)  the  partners  were  usually  male 
and  female,  and  often  caught  a  tumble  to 
gether  before  reaching  the  bottom  of  the 
hill.  Hereabouts  we  were  pestered  and 
haunted  by  two  young  girls,  the  elder  not 
more  than  thirteen,  teasing  us  to  buy 
matches  ;  and  finding  no  market  for  their 
commodity,  the  taller  one  suddenly  turned 
a  somerset  before  our  faces,  and  rolled 
heels  over  head  from  top  to  bottom  of  the 


404  OUR   OLD  HOME 

hill  on  which  we  stood.     Then,  scrambling 

t> 

up  the  acclivity,  the  topsy-turvy  trollop 
offered  us  her  matches  again,  as  demurely 
as  if  she  had  never  flung  aside  her  equili 
brium  ;  so  that,  dreading  a  repetition  of 
the  feat,  we  gave  her  sixpence  and  an  ad 
monition,  and  enjoined  her  never  to  do  so 
any  more. 

The  most  curious  amusement  that  we 
witnessed  here  —  or  anywhere  else,  indeed 
—  was  an  ancient  and  hereditary  pastime 
called  "Kissing  in  the  Ring."  I  shall  de 
scribe  the  sport  exactly  as  I  saw  it,  although 
an  English  friend  assures  me  that  there 
are  certain  ceremonies  with  a  handker 
chief,  which  make  it  much  more  decorous 
and  graceful.  A  handkerchief,  indeed  ! 
There  was  no  such  thing  in  the  crowd,  ex 
cept  it  were  the  one  which  they  had  just 
filched  out  of  my  pocket.  It  is  one  of  the 
simplest  kinds  of  games,  needing  little  or 
no  practice  to  make  the  player  altogether 
perfect ;  and  the  manner  of  it  is  this  :  A 
ring  is  formed  (in  the  present  case,  it  was 
of  large  circumference  and  thickly  gemmed 
around  with  faces,  mostly  on  the  broad 
grin),  into  the  centre  of  which  steps  an  ad 
venturous  youth,  and,  looking  round  the 
circle,  selects  whatever  maiden  may  most 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  405 

delight  his  eye.  He  presents  his  hand 
(which  she  is  bound  to  accept),  leads  her 
into  the  centre,  salutes  her  on  the  lips,  and 
retires,  taking  his  stand  in  the  expectant 
circle.  The  girl,  in  her  turn,  throws  a 
favorable  regard  on  some  fortunate  young 
man,  offers  her  hand  to  lead  him  forth, 
makes  him  happy  with  a  maidenly  kiss, 
and  withdraws  to  hide  her  blushes,  if  any 
there  be,  among  the  simpering  faces  in  the 
ring ;  while  the  favored  swain  loses  no 
time  in  transferring  her  salute  to  the  pret 
tiest  and  plumpest  among  the  many  mouths 
that  are  primming  themselves  in  anticipa 
tion.  And  thus  the  thing  goes  on,  till  all 
the  festive  throng  are  inwreathed  and  in 
tertwined  into  an  endless  and  inextricable 
chain  of  kisses  ;  though,  indeed,  it  smote 
me  with  compassion  to  reflect  that  some 
forlorn  pair  of  lips  might  be  left  out,  and 
never  know  the  triumph  of  a  salute,  after 
throwing  aside  so  many  delicate  reserves 
for  the  sake  of  winning  it.  If  the  young 
men  had  any  chivalry,  there  was  a  fair 
chance  to  display  it  by  kissing  the  home 
liest  damsel  in  the  circle. 

To  be  frank,  however,  at  the  first  glance, 
and  to  my  American  eye,  they  looked  all 
homely  alike,  and  the  chivalry  that  I  sug- 


406  OUR   OLD   HOME 

gest  is  more  than  I  could  have  been  ca 
pable  of,  at  any  period  of  my  life.  They 
seemed  to  be  country-lasses,  of  sturdy  and 
wholesome  aspect,  with  coarse  -  grained, 
cabbage-rosy  cheeks,  and,  I  am  willing  to 
suppose,  a  stout  texture  of  moral  principle, 
such  as  would  bear  a  good  deal  of  rough 
usage  without  suffering  much  detriment. 
But  how  unlike  the  trim  little  damsels  of 
my  native  land  !  I  desire  above  all  things 
to  be  courteous  ;  but,  since  the  plain  truth 
must  be  told,  the  soil  and  climate  of  Eng 
land  produce  feminine  beauty  as  rarely  as 
they  do  delicate  fruit  ;  and  though  admi 
rable  specimens  of  both  are  to  be  met  with, 
they  are  the  hot-house  ameliorations  of  re 
fined  society,  and  apt,  moreover,  to  relapse 
into  the  coarseness  of  the  original  stock. 
The  men  are  manlike,  but  the  women  are 
not  beautiful,  though  the  female  Bull  be 
well  enough  adapted  to  the  male.  To  re 
turn  to  the  lasses  of  Greenwich  Fair,  their 
charms  were  few,  and  their  behavior,  per 
haps,  not  altogether  commendable ;  and 
yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  a  degree 
of  faith  in  their  innocent  intentions,  with 
such  a  half-bashful  zest  and  entire  sim 
plicity  did  they  keep  up  their  part  of  the 
game.  It  put  the  spectator  in  good-humor 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  407 

to  look  at  them,  because  there  was  still 
something  of  the  old  Arcadian  life,  the 
secure  freedom  of  the  antique  age,  in  their 
way  of  surrendering  their  lips  to  strangers, 
as  if  there  were  no  evil  or  impurity  in  the 
world.  As  for  the  young  men,  they  were 
chiefly  specimens  of  the  vulgar  sediment 
of  London  life,  often  shabbily  genteel, 
rowdyish,  pale,  wearing  the  unbrushed  coat, 
unshifted  linen,  and  unwashed  faces  of 
yesterday,  as  well  as  the  haggardness  of 
last  night's  jollity  in  a  gin-shop.  Gather 
ing  their  character  from  these  tokens,  I 
wondered  whether  there  were  any  reason 
able  prospect  of  their  fair  partners  return 
ing  to  their  rustic  homes  with  as  much  in 
nocence  (whatever  were  its  amount  or  qual 
ity)  as  they  brought  to  Greenwich  Fair,  in 
spite  of  the  perilous  familiarity  established 
by  Kissing  in  the  Ring. 

The  manifold  disorders  resulting  from 
the  fair,  at  which  a  vast  city  was  brought 
into  intimate  relations  with  a  comparatively 
rural  district,  have  at  length  led  to  its  sup 
pression  ;  this  was  the  very  last  celebration 
of  it,  and  brought  to  a  close  the  broad- 
mouthed  merriment  of  many  hundred  years. 
Thus  my  poor  sketch,  faint  as  its  colors 
are,  may  acquire  some  little  value  in  the 


408  OUR   OLD  HOME 

reader's  eyes  from  the  consideration  that 
no  observer  of  the  coming  time  will  ever 
have  an  opportunity  to  give  a  better.  I 
should  find  it  difficult  to  believe,  however, 
that  the  queer  pastime  just  described,  or 
any  moral  mischief  to  which  that  and  other 
customs  might  pave  the  way,  can  have  led 
to  the  overthrow  of  Greenwich  Fair ;  for 
it  has  often  seemed  to  me  that  Englishmen 
of  station  and  respectability,  unless  of  a 
peculiarly  philanthropic  turn,  have  neither 
any  faith  in  the  feminine  purity  of  the 
lower  orders  of  their  countrywomen,  nor 
the  slightest  value  for  it,  allowing  its  pos 
sible  existence.  The  distinction  of  ranks 
is  so  marked,  that  the  English  cottage 
damsel  holds  a  position  somewhat  analogous 
to  that  of  the  negro  girl  in  our  Southern 
States.  Hence  comes  inevitable  detriment 
to  the  moral  condition  of  those  men  them 
selves,  who  forget  that  the  humblest  wo 
man  has  a  right  and  a  duty  to  hold  herself 
in  the  same  sanctity  as  the  highest.  The 
subject  cannot  well  be  discussed  in  these 
pages ;  but  I  offer  it  as  a  serious  convic 
tion,  from  what  I  have  been  able  to  observe, 
that  the  England  of  to-day  is  the  unscrupu 
lous  old  England  of  Tom  Jones  and  Joseph 
Andrews,  Humphrey  Clinker  and  Roder- 


A   LONDON  SUBURB  409 

ick  Random ;  and  in  our  refined  era,  just 
the  same  as  at  that  more  free-spoken  epoch, 
this  singular  people  has  a  certain  contempt 
for  any  fine -strained  purity,  any  special 
squeamishness,  as  they  consider  it,  on  the 
part  of  an  ingenuous  youth.  They  appear 
to  look  upon  it  as  a  suspicious  phenomenon 
in  the  masculine  character. 

Nevertheless,  I  by  no  means  take  upon 
me  to  affirm  that  English  morality,  as  re 
gards  the  phase  here  alluded  to,  is  really  at 
a  lower  point  than  our  own.  Assuredly,  I 
hope  so,  because,  making  a  higher  preten 
sion,  or,  at  all  events,  more  carefully  hiding- 
whatever  may  be  amiss,  we  are  either  better 
than  they,  or  necessarily  a  great  deal  worse. 
It  impressed  me  that  their  open  avowal 
and  recognition  of  immoralities  served  to 
throw  the  disease  to  the  surface,  where  it 
might  be  more  effectually  dealt  with,  and 
leave  a  sacred  interior  not  utterly  profaned, 
instead  of  turning  its  poison  back  among 
the  inner  vitalities  of  the  character,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  corrupting  them  all.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  these  Englishmen  are  cer 
tainly  a  franker  arid  simpler  people  than 
ourselves,  from  peer  to  peasant ;  but  if  we 
can  take  it  as  compensatory  on  our  part 
(which  I  leave  to  be  considered)  that  they 


410  OUR   OLD   HOME 

owe  those  noble  and  manly  qualities  to  a 
coarser  grain  in  their  nature,  and  that, 
with  a  finer  one  in  ours,  we  shall  ultimately 
acquire  a  marble  polish  of  which  they  are 
unsusceptible,  I  believe  that  this  may  be 
the  truth. 


X. 
UP    THE    THAMES 

THE  upper  portion  of  Greenwich  (where 
my  last  article  left  me  loitering)  is  a  cheer 
ful,  comely,  old-fashioned  town,  the  pe 
culiarities  of  which,  if  there  be  any,  have 
passed  out  of  my  remembrance.  As  you 
descend  towards  the  Thames  the  streets  get 
meaner,  and  the  shabby  and  sunken  houses, 
elbowing  one  another  for  frontage,  bear  the 
signboards  of  beer-shops  and  eating-rooms, 
with  especial  promises  of  white-bait  and 
other  delicacies  in  the  fishing  line.  You 
observe,  also,  a  frequent  announcement  of 
"  Tea  Gardens  "  in  the  rear  ;  although, 
estimating  the  capacity  of  the  premises  by 
their  external  compass,  the  entire  sylvan 
charm  and  shadowy  seclusion  of  such  bliss 
ful  resorts  must  be  limited  within  a  small 
back-yard.  These  places  of  cheap  suste 
nance  and  recreation  depend  for  support 
upon  the  innumerable  pleasure-parties  who 
come  from  London  Bridge  by  steamer,  at 
a  fare  of  a  few  pence,  and  who  get  as  en- 


412  OUR   OLD  HOME 

joyable  a  meal  for  a  shilling  a  head  as  the 
Ship  Hotel  would  afford  a  gentleman  for  a 
guinea. 

The  steamers,  which  are  constantly 
smoking  their  pipes  up  and  down  the 
Thames,  offer  much  the  most  agreeable 
mode  of  getting  to  London.  At  least,  it 
might  be  exceedingly  agreeable,  except  for 
the  myriad  floating  particles  of  soot  from 
the  stove-pipe,  and  the  heavy  heat  of  mid 
summer  sunshine  on  the  unsheltered  deck, 
or  the  chill,  misty  air-draught  of  a  cloudy 
day,  and  the  spiteful  little  showers  of  rain 
that  may  spatter  down  upon  you  at  any 
moment,  whatever  the  promise  of  the  sky ; 
besides  which  there  is  some  slight  incon 
venience  from  the  inexhaustible  throng  of 
passengers,  who  scarcely  allow  you  stand 
ing-room,  nor  so  much  as  a  breath  of  un 
appropriated  air,  and  never  a  chance  to  sit 
down.  If  these  difficulties,  added  to  the 
possibility  of  getting  your  pocket  picked, 
weigh  little  with  you,  the  panorama  along 
the  shores  of  the  memorable  river,  and  the 
incidents  and  shows  of  passing  life  upon  its 
bosom,  render  the  trip  far  preferable  to  the 
brief  yet  tiresome  shoot  along  the  railway 
track.  On  one  such  voyage,  a  regatta  of 
wherries  raced  past  us,  and  at  once  involved 


UP   THE    THAMES  413 

every  soul  on  board  our  steamer  in  the  tre 
mendous  excitement  of  the  struggle.  The 
spectacle  was  but  a  moment  within  our 
view,  and  presented  nothing  more  than  a 
few  light  skiffs,  in  each  of  which  sat  a 
single  rower,  bare-armed,  and  with  little 
apparel,  save  a  shirt  and  drawers,  pale, 
anxious,  with  every  muscle  on  the  stretch, 
and  plying  his  oars  in  such  fashion  that 
the  boat  skimmed  along  with  the  aerial 
celerity  of  a  swallow.  I  wondered  at  my 
self  for  so  immediately  catching  an  interest 
in  the  affair,  which  seemed  to  contain  no 
very  exalted  rivalship  of  manhood ;  but, 
whatever  the  kind  of  battle  or  the  prize  of 
victory,  it  stirs  one's  sympathy  immensely, 
and  is  even  awful,  to  behold  the  rare  sight 
of  a  man  thoroughly  in  earnest,  doing  his 
best,  putting  forth  all  there  is  in  him,  and 
staking  his  very  soul  (as  these  rowers  ap 
peared  willing  to  do)  on  the  issue  of  the 
contest.  It  was  the  seventy-fourth  annual 
regatta  of  the  Free  Watermen  of  Green 
wich,  and  announced  itself  as  under  the 
patronage  of  the  Lord  Mayor  and  other 
distinguished  individuals,  at  whose  expense, 
I  suppose,  a  prize-boat  was  offered  to  the 
conqueror,  and  some  small  amounts  of 
money  to  the  inferior  competitors. 


414  OUR   OLD  HOME 

The  aspect  of  London  along  the  Thames, 
below  Bridge,  as  it  is  called,  is  by  no  means 
so  impressive  as  it  ought  to  be,  considering 
what  peculiar  advantages  are  offered  for 
the  display  of  grand  and  stately  archi 
tecture  by  the  passage  of  a  river  through 
the  midst  of  a  great  city.  It  seems,  indeed, 
as  if  the  heart  of  London  had  been  cleft 
open  for  the  mere  purpose  of  showing  how 
rotten  and  drearily  mean  it  had  become. 
The  shore  is  lined  with  the  shabbiest, 
blackest,  and  ugliest  buildings  that  can  be 
imagined,  decayed  warehouses  with  blind 
windows,  and  wharves  that  look  ruinous  ; 
insomuch  that,  had  I  known  nothing  more 
of  the  world's  metropolis,  I  might  have 
fancied  that  it  had  already  experienced  the 
downfall  which  I  have  heard  commercial 
and  financial  prophets  predict  for  it,  within 
the  century.  And  the  muddy  tide  of  the 
Thames,  reflecting  nothing,  and  hiding  a 
million  of  unclean  secrets  within  its  breast, 
—  a  sort  of  guilty  conscience,  as  it  were, 
unwholesome  with  the  rivulets  of  sin  that 
constantly  flow  into  it,  —  is  just  the  dis 
mal  stream  to  glide  by  such  a  city.  The 
surface,  to  be  sure,  displays  no  lack  of 
activity,  being  fretted  by  the  passage  of  a 
hundred  steamers  and  covered  with  a  good 


UP   THE    THAMES  415 

deal  of  shipping,  but  mostly  of  a  clumsier 
build  than  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
in  the  Mersey  :  a  fact  which  I  complacently 
attributed  to  the  smaller  number  of  Ameri 
can  clippers  in  the  Thames,  and  the  less 
prevalent  influence  of  American  example 
in  refining  away  the  broad -bottomed  ca 
pacity  of  the  old  Dutch  or  English  models. 
About  midway  between  Greenwich  and 
London  Bridge,  at  a  rude  landing-place  on 
the  left  bank  of  the  river,  the  steamer  rings 
its  bell  and  makes  a  momentary  pause  in 
front  of  a  large  circular  structure,  where  it 
may  be  worth  our  while  to  scramble  ashore. 
It  indicates  the  locality  of  one  of  those 
prodigious  practical  blunders  that  would 
supply  John  Bull  with  a  topic  of  inexhaus 
tible  ridicule  if  his  cousin  Jonathan  had 
committed  them,  but  of  which  he  himself 
perpetrates  ten  to  our  one  in  the  mere 
wantonness  of  wealth  that  lacks  better  em 
ployment.  The  circular  building  covers 
the  entrance  to  the  Thames  Tunnel,  and  is 
surmounted  by  a  dome  of  glass,  so  as  to 
throw  daylight  down  into  the  great  depth 
at  which  the  passage  of  the  river  com 
mences.  Descending  a  wearisome  succes 
sion  of  staircases,  we  at  last  find  ourselves, 
still  in  the  broad  noon,  standing  before  a 


41 6  OUR   OLD  HOME 

closed  door,  on  opening  which  we  behold 
the  vista  of  an  arched  corridor  that  extends 
into  everlasting  midnight.  In  these  days, 
when  glass  has  been  applied  to  so  many 
new  purposes,  it  is  a  pity  that  the  architect 
had  not  thought  of  arching  portions  of  his 
abortive  tunnel  with  immense  blocks  of 
the  lucid  substance,  over  which  the  dusky 
Thames  would  have  flowed  like  a  cloud, 
making  the  sub-fluvial  avenue  only  a  little 
gloomier  than  a  street  of  upper  London. 
At  present,  it  is  illuminated  at  regular  in 
tervals  by  jets  of  gas,  not  very  brilliantly, 
yet  with  lustre  enough  to  show  the  damp 
plaster  of  the  ceiling  and  walls,  and  the 
massive  stone  pavement,  the  crevices  of 
which  are  oozy  with  moisture,  not  from  the 
incumbent  river,  but  from  hidden  springs 
in  the  earth's  deeper  heart.  There  are 
two  parallel  corridors,  with  a  wall  between, 
for  the  separate  accommodation  of  the 
double  throng  of  foot-passengers,  equestri 
ans,  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds,  which  was 
expected  to  roll  and  reverberate  continually 
through  the  tunnel.  Only  one  of  them 
has  ever  been  opened,  and  its  echoes  are 
but  feebly  awakened  by  infrequent  foot 
falls. 

Yet  there  seem  to  be  people  who  spend 


UP   THE    THAMES  417 

their  lives  here,  and  who  probably  blink 
like  owls,  when,  once  or  twice  a  year,  per 
haps,  they  happen  to  climb  into  the  sun 
shine.  All  along  the  corridor,  which  I  be 
lieve  to  be  a  mile  in  extent,  we  see  stalls 
or  shops  in  little  alcoves,  kept  principally 
by  women  ;  they  were  of  a  ripe  age,  I  was 
glad  to  observe,  and  certainly  robbed  Eng 
land  of  none  of  its  very  moderate  supply  of 
feminine  loveliness  by  their  deeper  than 
tomb -like  interment.  As  you  approach 
(and  they  are  so  accustomed  to  the  dusky 
gaslight  that  they  read  all  your  character 
istics  afar  off),  they  assail  you  with  hungry 
entreaties  to  buy  some  of  their  merchan 
dise,  holding  forth  views  of  the  tunnel  put 
up  in  cases  of  Derbyshire  spar,  with  a 
magnifying  glass  at  one  end  to  make  the 
vista  more  effective.  They  offer  you,  be 
sides,  cheap  jewelry,  sunny  topazes,  and 
resplendent  emeralds  for  sixpence,  and  di 
amonds  as  big  as  the  Kohinoor  at  a  not 
much  heavier  cost,  together  with  a  multi 
farious  trumpery  which  has  died  out  of  the 
upper  world  to  reappear  in  this  Tartarean 
bazaar.  That  you  may  fancy  yourself  still 
in  the  realms  of  the  living,  they  urge  you 
to  partake  of  cakes,  candy,  ginger-beer,  and 
such  small  refreshment,  more  suitable,  how- 


41 8  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ever,  for  the  shadowy  appetite  of  ghosts 
than  for  the  sturdy  stomachs  of  English 
men.  The  most  capacious  of  the  shops 
contains  a  dioramic  exhibition  of  cities  and 
scenes  in  the  daylight  world,  with  a  dreary 
glimmer  of  gas  among  them  all ;  so  that 
they  serve  well  enough  to  represent  the 
dim,  unsatisfactory  remembrances  that 
dead  people  might  be  supposed  to  retain 
from  their  past  lives,  mixing  them  up  with 
the  ghastliness  of  their  unsubstantial  state. 
I  dwell  the  more  upon  these  trifles,  and  do 
my  best  to  give  them  a  mockery  of  impor 
tance,  because,  if  these  are  nothing,  then 
all  this  elaborate  contrivance  and  mighty 
piece  of  work  has  been  wrought  in  vain. 
The  Englishman  has  burrowed  under  the 
bed  of  his  great  river,  and  set  ships  of  two 
or  three  thousand  tons  a-rolling  over  his 
head,  only  to  provide  new  sites  for  a  few 
old  women  to  sell  cakes  and  ginger-beer ! 
Yet  the  conception  was  a  grand  one  ; 
and  though  it  has  proved  an  absolute  fail 
ure,  swallowing  an  immensity  of  toil  and 
money,  with  annual  returns  hardly  suffi 
cient  to  keep  the  pavement  free  from  the 
ooze  of  subterranean  springs,  yet  it  needs, 
T  presume,  only  an  expenditure  three  or 
four  (or,  for  aught  I  know,  twenty)  times 


UP   THE    THAMES  419 

as  large,  to  make  the  enterprise  brilliantly 
successful.  The  descent  is  so  great  from 
the  bank  of  the  river  to  its  surface,  and  the 
tunnel  dips  so  profoundly  under  the  riv 
er's  bed,  that  the  approaches  on  either 
side  must  commence  a  long  way  off,  in 
order  to  render  the  entrance  accessible  to 
horsemen  or  vehicles  ;  so  that  the  larger 
part  of  the  cost  of  the  whole  affair  should 
have  been  expended  on  its  margins.  It 
has  turned  out  a  sublime  piece  of  folly ; 
and  when  the  New-Zealander  of  distant 
ages  shall  have  moralized  sufficiently  among 
the  ruins  of  London  Bridge,  he  will  be 
think  himself  that  somewhere  thereabout 
was  the  marvelous  Tunnel,  the  very  ex 
istence  of  which  will  seem  to  him  as  in 
credible  as  that  of  the  hanging  gardens  of 
Babylon.  But  the  Thames  will  long  ago 
have  broken  through  the  massive  arch,  and 
choked  up  the  corridors  with  mud  and 
sand  and  with  the  large  stones  of  the 
structure  itself,  intermixed  with  skeletons 
of  drowned  people,  the  rusty  ironwork  of 
sunken  vessels,  and  the  great  many  such 
precious  and  curious  things  as  a  river  al 
ways  contrives  to  hide  in  its  bosom  ;  the 
entrance  will  have  been  obliterated,  and 
its  very  site  forgotten  beyond  the  memory 


420  OUR   OLD  HOME 

of  twenty  generations  of  men,  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  be  held  a  dangerous 
spot  on  account  of  the  malaria ;  insomuch 
that  the  traveler  will  make  but  a  brief  and 
careless  inquisition  for  the  traces  of  the 
old  wonder,  and  will  stake  his  credit  before 
the  public,  in  some  Pacific  Monthly  of  that 
day,  that  the  story  of  it  is  but  a  myth, 
though  enriched  with  a  spiritual  profundity 
which  he  will  proceed  to  unfold. 

Yet  it  is  impossible  (for  a  Yankee,  at 
least)  to  see  so  much  magnificent  ingenu 
ity  thrown  away,  without  trying  to  endow 
the  unfortunate  result  with  some  kind  of 
usefulness,  though  perhaps  widely  differ 
ent  from  the  purpose  of  its  original  concep 
tion.  In  former  ages,  the  mile-long  corri 
dors,  with  their  numerous  alcoves,  might 
have  been  utilized  as  a  series  of  dungeons, 
the  fittest  of  all  possible  receptacles  for 
prisoners  of  state.  Dethroned  monarchs 
and  fallen  statesmen  would  not  have  needed 
to  remonstrate  against  a  domicile  so  spa 
cious,  so  deeply  secluded  from  the  world's 
scorn,  and  so  admirably  in  accordance  with 
their  thenceforward  sunless  fortunes.  An 
alcove  here  might  have  suited  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  better  than  that  darksome  hiding- 
place  communicating  with  the  great  cham- 


UP   THE    THAMES  421 

her  ill  the  Tower,  pacing  from  end  to  end 
of  which  he  meditated  upon  his  "  History 
of  the  World."  His  track  would  here  have 
been  straight  and  narrow,  indeed,  and 
would  therefore  have  lacked  somewhat  of 
the  freedom  that  his  intellect  demanded ; 
and  yet  the  length  to  which  his  footsteps 
might  have  traveled  forth  and  retraced 
themselves  would  partly  have  harmonized 
his  physical  movement  with  the  grand 
curves  and  planetary  returns  of  his  thought, 
through  cycles  of  majestic  periods.  Hav 
ing  it  in  his  mind  to  compose  the  world's 
history,  methinks  he  could  have  asked  no 
better  retirement  than  such  a  cloister  as 
this,  insulated  from  all  the  seductions  of 
mankind  and  womankind,  deep  beneath 
their  mysteries  and  motives,  down  into  the 
heart  of  things,  full  of  personal  reminis 
cences  in  order  to  the  comprehensive 
measurement  and  verification  of  historic 
records,  seeing  into  the  secrets  of  human 
nature,  —  secrets  that  daylight  never  yet 
revealed  to  mortal,  —  but  detecting  their 
whole  scope  and  purport  with  the  infallible 
eyes  of  unbroken  solitude  and  night.  And 
then  the  shades  of  the  old  mighty  men 
might  have  risen  from  their  still  pro- 
founder  abodes  and  joined  him  in  the  dim 


422  OUR   OLD  HOME 

corridor,  treading  beside  him  with  an  an 
tique  stateliness  of  mien,  telling  him  in 
melancholy  tones,  grand,  but  always  mel 
ancholy,  of  the  greater  ideas  and  purposes 
which  their  most  renowned  performances 
so  imperfectly  carried  out ;  that,  magnifi 
cent  successes  in  the  view  of  all  poster 
ity,  they  were  but  failures  to  those  who 
planned  them.  As  Raleigh  was  a  navi 
gator,  Noah  would  have  explained  to  him 
the  peculiarities  of  construction  that  made 
the  ark  so  seaworthy ;  as  Raleigh  was  a 
statesman,  Moses  would  have  discussed 
with  him  the  principles  of  laws  and  govern 
ment  ;  as  Raleigh  was  a  soldier,  Caesar  and 
Hannibal  would  have  held  debate  in  his 
presence,  with  this  martial  student  for  their 
umpire ;  as  Raleigh  was  a  poet,  David,  or 
whatever  most  illustrious  bard  he  might 
call  up,  would  have  touched  his  harp,  and 
made  manifest  all  the  true  significance  of 
the  past  by  means  of  song  and  the  subtle 
intelligences  of  music. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  forgotten  that  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh's  century  knew  nothing  of 
gaslight,  and  that  it  would  require  a  pro 
digious  and  wasteful  expenditure  of  tal 
low-candles  to  illuminate  the  tunnel  suffi 
ciently  to  discern  even  a  ghost.  On  this 


UP   THE    THAMES  423 

account,  however,  it  would  be  all  the  more 
suitable  place  of  confinement  for  a  met 
aphysician,  to  keep  him  from  bewildering 
mankind  with  his  shadowy  speculations  ; 
and,  being  shut  off  from  external  converse, 
the  dark  corridor  would  help  him  to  make 
rich  discoveries  in  those  cavernous  regions 
and  mysterious  by-paths  of  the  intellect, 
which  he  had  so  long  accustomed  himself 
to  explore.  But  how  would  every  succes 
sive  age  rejoice  in  so  secure  a  habitation 
for  its  reformers,  and  especially  for  each 
best  and  wisest  man  that  happened  to  be 
then  alive  !  He  seeks  to  burn  up  our 
whole  system  of  society,  under  pretense  of 
purifying  it  from  its  abuses  !  Away  with 
him  into  the  tunnel,  and  let  him  begin  by 
setting  the  Thames  on  fire,  if  he  is  able ! 

If  not  precisely  these,  yet  akin  to  these 
were  some  of  the  fantasies  that  haunted 
me  as  I  passed  under  the  river  :  for  the 
place  is  suggestive  of  such  idle  and  irre 
sponsible  stuff  by  its  own  abortive  charac 
ter,  its  lack  of  whereabout  on  upper  earth, 
or  any  solid  foundation  of  realities.  Could 
I  have  looked  forward  a  few  years,  I  might 
have  regretted  that  American  enterprise 
had  not  provided  a  similar  tunnel,  under 
the  Hudson  or  the  Potomac,  for  the  con- 


424  OUR  OLD  HOME 

venience  of  our  National  Government  in 
times  hardly  yet  gone  by.  It  would  be  de 
lightful  to  clap  up  all  the  enemies  of  our 
peace  and  Union  in  the  dark  together,  and 
there  let  them  abide,  listening  to  the  mo 
notonous  roll  of  the  river  above  their 
heads,  or  perhaps  in  a  state  of  miraculously 
suspended  animation,  until,  —  be  it  after 
months,  years,  or  centuries,  —  when  the 
turmoil  shall  be  all  over,  the  Wrong  washed 
away  in  blood  (since  that  must  needs  be 
the  cleansing  fluid),  and  the  Right  firmly 
rooted  in  the  soil  which  that  blood  will 
have  enriched,  they  might  crawl  forth  again 
and  catch  a  single  glimpse  at  their  re 
deemed  country,  and  feel  it  to  be  a  better 
land  than  they  deserve,  and  die  ! 

I  was  not  sorry  when  the  daylight 
reached  me  after  a  much  briefer  abode  in 
the  nether  regions  than,  I  fear,  would  await 
the  troublesome  personages  just  hinted  at. 
Emerging  on  the  Surrey  side  of  the 
Thames,  I  found  myself  in  Rotherhithe,  a 
neighborhood  not  unfamiliar  to  the  readers 
of  old  books  of  maritime  adventure.  There 
being  a  ferry  hard  by  the  mouth  of  the 
tunnel,  I  recrossed  the  river  in  the  prim 
itive  fashion  of  an  open  boat,  which  the 
conflict  of  wind  and  tide,  together  with  the 


UP  THE    THAMES  425 

swash  and  swell  of  the  passing  steamers, 
tossed  high  and  low  rather  tumultuously. 
This  inquietude  of  our  frail  skiff  (which, 
indeed,  bobbed  up  and  down  like  a  cork)  so 
much  alarmed  an  old  lady,  the  only  other 
passenger,  that  the  boatmen  essayed  to 
comfort  her.  "  Never  fear,  mother  !  " 
grumbled  one  of  them;  "we'll  make  the 
river  as  smooth  as  we  can  for  you.  We  '11 
get  a  plane,  and  plane  down  the  waves  ! " 
The  joke  may  not  read  very  brilliantly; 
but  I  make  bold  to  record  it  as  the  only 
specimen  that  reached  my  ears  of  the  old, 
rough  water -wit  for  which  the  Thames 
used  to  be  so  celebrated.  Passing  directly 
along  the  line  of  the  sunken  tunnel,  we 
landed  in  Wapping,  which  I  should  have 
presupposed  to  be  the  most  tarry  and 
pitchy  spot  on  earth,  swarming  with  old 
salts,  and  full  of  warm,  bustling,  coarse, 
homely,  and  cheerful  life.  Nevertheless, 
it  turned  out  to  be  a  cold  and  torpid  neigh 
borhood,  mean,  shabby,  and  unpicturesque, 
both  as  to  its  buildings  and  inhabitants  : 
the  latter  comprising  (so  far  as  was  visible 
to  me)  not  a  single  unmistakable  sailor, 
though  plenty  of  land-sharks,  who  get  a 
half-dishonest  livelihood  by  business  con 
nected  with  the  sea.  Ale  and  spirit  vaults 


426  OUR   OLD  HOME 

(as  petty  drinking-establishments  are  styled 
in  England,  .pretending  to  contain  vast 
cellars  full  of  liquor  within  the  compass 
of  ten  feet  square  above  ground)  were 
particularly  abundant,  together  with  ap 
ples,  oranges,  and  oysters,  the  stalls  of 
fishmongers  and  butchers,  and  slop-shops, 
where  blue  jackets  and  duck  trousers 
swung  and  capered  before  the  doors. 
Everything  was  on  the  poorest  scale,  and 
the  place  bore  an  aspect  of  unredeemable 
decay.  From  this  remote  point  of  London 
I  strolled  leisurely  towards  the  heart  of  the 
city ;  while  the  streets,  at  first  but  thinly 
occupied  by  man  or  vehicle,  got  more  and 
more  thronged  with  foot-passengers,  carts, 
drays,  cabs,  and  the  all-pervading  and  all- 
accommodating  omnibus.  But  I  lack  cour 
age,  and  feel  that  I  should  lack  persever 
ance,  as  the  gentlest  reader  would  lack 
patience,  to  undertake  a  descriptive  stroll 
through  London  streets ;  more  especially 
as  there  would  be  a  volume  ready  for  the 
printer  before  we  could  reach  a  midway 
resting-place  at  Charing  Cross.  It  will  be 
the  easier  course  to  step  aboard  another 
passing  steamer,  and  continue  our  trip  up 
the  Thames. 

The  next  notable  group  of  objects  is  an 


UP   THE    THAMES  427 

assemblage  of  ancient  walls,  battlements, 
and  turrets,  out  of  the  midst  of  which  rises 
prominently  one  great  square  tower,  of  a 
grayish  hue,  bordered  with  white  stone, 
and  having  a  small  turret  at  each  corner 
of  the  roof.  This  central  structure  is  the 
White  Tower,  and  the  whole  circuit  of 
ramparts  and  inclosed  edifices  constitutes 
what  is  known  in  English  history,  and  still 
more  widely  and  impressively  in  English 
poetry,  as  the  Tower.  A  crowd  of  river- 
craft  are  generally  moored  in  front  of  it ; 
but  if  we  look  sharply  at  the  right  moment 
under  the  base  of  the  rampart,  we  may 
catch  a  glimpse  of  an  arched  water  -  en 
trance,  half  submerged,  past  which  the 
Thames  glides  as  indifferently  as  if  it  were 
the  mouth  of  a  city-kennel.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  the  Traitor's  Gate,  a  dreary  kind  of 
triumphal  passage-way  (now  supposed  to  be 
shut  up  and  barred  forever),  through  which 
a  multitude  of  noble  and  illustrious  person 
ages  have  entered  the  Tower  and  found  it 
a  brief  resting-place  on  their  way  to  heaven. 
Passing  it  many  times,  I  never  observed 
that  anybody  glanced  at  this  shadowy  and 
ominous  trap-door,  save  myself.  It  is  well 
that  America  exists,  if  it  were  only  that 
her  vagrant  children  may  be  impressed 


428  OUR   OLD   HOME 

and  affected  by  the  historical  monuments 
of  England  in  a  degree  of  which  the  native 
inhabitants  are  evidently  incapable.  These 
matters  are  too  familiar,  too  real,  and  too 
hopelessly  built  in  amongst  and  mixed  up 
with  the  common  objects  and  affairs  of  life, 
to  be  easily  susceptible  of  imaginative 
coloring  in  their  minds ;  and  even  their 
poets  and  romancers  feel  it  a  toil,  and  al 
most  a  delusion,  to  extract  poetic  material 
out  of  what  seems  embodied  poetry  itself 
to  an  American.  An  Englishman  cares 
nothing  about  the  Tower,  which  to  us  is  a 
haunted  castle  in  dreamland.  That  honest 
and  excellent  gentleman,  the  late  Mr.  G.  P. 
R.  James  (whose  mechanical  ability,  one 
might  have  supposed,  would  nourish  itself 
by  devouring  every  old  stone  of  such  a 
structure),  once  assured  me  that  he  had 
never  in  his  life  set  eyes  upon  the  Tower, 
though  for  years  an  historic  novelist  in 
London. 

Not  to  spend  a  whole  summer's  day 
upon  the  voyage,  we  will  suppose  ourselves 
to  have  reached  London  Bridge,  and  thence 
to  have  taken  another  steamer  for  a  farther 
passage  up  the  river.  But  here  the  mem 
orable  objects  succeed  each  other  so  rap 
idly  that  I  can  spare  but  a  single  sentence 


UP   THE    THAMES  429 

even  for  the  great  Dome,  though  I  deem 
it  more  picturesque,  in  that  dusky  atmos 
phere,  than  St.  Peter's  in  its  clear  blue  sky.1 
I  must  mention,  however  (since  everything 
connected  with  royalty  is  especially  inter 
esting  to  my  dear  countrymen),  that  I  once 
saw  a  large  and  beautiful  barge,  splendidly 
gilded  and  ornamented,  and  overspread  with 
a  rich  covering,  lying  at  the  pier  nearest  to 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral ;  it  had  the  royal  ban 
ner  of  Great  Britain  displayed,  besides  be 
ing  decorated  with  a  number  of  other  flags  ; 
and  many  footmen  (who  are  universally  the 
grandest  and  gaudiest  objects  to  be  seen 

1  St.  Paul's  appeared  to  me  unspeakably  grand  and 
noble,  and  the  more  so  from  the  throng  and  bustle 
continually  going  on  around  its  base,  without  in  the  least 
disturbing  the  sublime  repose  of  its  great  dome,  and, 
indeed,  of  all  its  massive  height  and  breadth.  Other 
edifices  may  crowd  close  to  its  foundation,  and  people 
may  tramp  as  they  like  about  it;  but  still  the  great 
cathedral  is  as  quiet  and  serene  as  if  it  stood  in  the 
middle  of  Salisbury  Plain.  There  cannot  be  anything 
else  in  its  way  so  good  in  the  world  as  just  this  effect  of 
St.  Paul's  in  the  very  heart  and  densest  tumult  of  Lon 
don.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  church  is  built  of 
marble,  or  of  whatever  other  white  or  nearly  white  ma 
terial  ;  but  in  the  time  that  it  has  been  standing  there,  it 
has  grown  black  with  the  smoke  of  ages,  through  which 
there  are,  nevertheless,  gleams  of  white,  that  make  a 
most  picturesque  impression  on  the  whole.  It  is  much 
better  than  staring  white;  the  edifice  would  not  be 
nearly  so  grand  without  this  drapery  of  black.  —  II.  91. 


43O  OUR   OLD   HOME 

in  England  at  this  day,  and  these  were 
regal  ones,  in  a  bright  scarlet  livery  bedi 
zened  with  gold-lace,  and  white  silk  stock 
ings)  were  in  attendance.  I  know  not  what 
festive  or  ceremonial  occasion  may  have 
drawn  out  this  pageant ;  after  all,  it  might 
have  been  merely  a  city-spectacle,  apper 
taining  to  the  Lord  Mayor ;  but  the  sight 
had  its  value  in  bringing  vividly  before  me 
the  grand  old  times  when  the  sovereign 
and  nobles  were  accustomed  to  use  the 
Thames  as  the  high  street  of  the  metrop 
olis,  and  join  in  pompous  processions  upon 
it ;  whereas,  the  desuetude  of  such  customs 
nowadays  has  caused  the  whole  show  of 
river-life  to  consist  in  a  multitude  of  smoke- 
begrimed  steamers.  An  analogous  change 
has  taken  place  in  the  streets,  where  cabs 
and  the  omnibus  have  crowded  out  a  rich 
variety  of  vehicles  ;  and  thus  life  gets  more 
monotonous  in  hue  from  age  to  age,  and  ap 
pears  to  seize  every  opportunity  to  strip  off 
a  bit  of  its  gold-lace  among  the  wealthier 
classes,  and  to  make  itself  decent  in  the 
lower  ones. 

Yonder  is  Whitefriars,  the  old  rowdy 
Alsatia,  now  wearing  as  decorous  a  face 
as  any  other  portion  of  London  ;  and,  ad 
joining  it,  the  avenues  and  brick  squares 


ST.   PAUL'S   CATHEDRAL 


UP   THE    THAMES  43 1 

of  the  Temple,  with  that  historic  garden, 
close  upon  the  river-side,  and  still-  rich  in 
shrubbery  and  flowers,  where  the  partisans 
of  York  and  Lancaster  plucked  the  fatal 
roses,  and  scattered  their  pale  and  bloody 
petals  over  so  many  English  battle-fields. 
Hard  by,  we  see  the  long  white  front  or 
rear  of  Somerset  House,  and,  farther  on, 
rise  the  two  new  Houses  of  Parliament, 
with  a  huge  unfinished  tower  already  hid 
ing  its  imperfect  summit  in  the  smoky 
canopy,  —  the  whole  vast  and  cumbrous 
edifice  a  specimen  of  the  best  that  modern 
architecture  can  effect,  elaborately  imitat 
ing  the  master-pieces  of  those  simple  ages 
when  men  "  builded  better  than  they 
knew."  1  Close  by  it,  we  have  a  glimpse 

1  After  coming  out  of  the  Abbey,  we  looked  at  the  two 
Houses  of  Parliament,  directly  across  the  way,  —  an  im 
mense  structure,  and  certainly  most  splendid,  built  of  a 
beautiful  warm-colored  stone.  The  building  has  a  very 
elaborate  finish,  and  delighted  me  at  first ;  but  by  and 
by  I  began  to  be  sensible  of  a  weariness  in  the  effect,  a 
lack  of  variety  in  the  plan  and  ornament,  a  deficiency  of 
invention  ;  so  that  instead  of  being  more  and  more  in 
terested  the  longer  one  looks,  as  is  the  case  with  an  old 
Gothic  edifice,  and  continually  reading  deeper  into  it, 
one  finds  that  one  has  seen  all  in  seeing  a  little  piece, 
and  that  the  magnificent  palace  has  nothing  better  to 
show  one  or  to  do  for  one.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  old 
weather-stained  and  smoke-blackened  Abbey  shames 
down  this  brand  -  newness  ;  not  that  the  Parliament 
Houses  are  not  fine  objects  to  look  at,  too.  —  II.  105. 


432 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


of  the  roof  and  upper  towers  of  the  holy 
Abbey ;  while  that  gray,  ancestral  pile  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river  is  Lambeth 
Palace,  a  venerable  group  of  halls  and  tur 
rets,  chiefly  built  of  brick,  but  with  at 
least  one  large  tower  of  stone.1  In  our 
course,  we  have  passed  beneath  half  a 
dozen  bridges,  and,  emerging  out  of  the 
black  heart  of  London,  shall  soon  reach  a 
cleanly  suburb,  where  old  Father  Thames, 
if  I  remember,  begins  to  put  on  an  aspect 
of  unpolluted  innocence.  And  now  we 
look  back  upon  the  mass  of  innumerable 
roofs,  out  of  which  rise  steeples,  towers, 
columns,  and  the  great  crowning  Dome, 
—  look  back,  in  short,  upon  that  mystery 
of  the  world's  proudest  city,  amid  which 
a  man  so  longs  and  loves  to  be  ;  not,  per 
haps,  because  it  contains  much  that  is  pos 
itively  admirable  and  enjoyable,  but  be 
cause,  at  all  events,  the  world  has  nothing 
better.  The  cream  of  external  life  is  there ; 

1  It  stands  immediately  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  not 
far  above  the  bridge.  We  merely  walked  round  it,  and 
saw  only  an  old  stone  tower  or  two,  partially  renewed 
with  brick,  and  a  high  connecting  wall,  within  which  ap 
peared  gables  and  other  portions  of  the  palace,  all  of  an 
ancient  plan  and  venerable  aspect,  though  evidently 
much  patched  up  and  restored  in  the  course  of  the  many 
ages  since  its  foundation.  —  II.  193. 


UP   THE    THAMES  433 

and  whatever  merely  intellectual  or  ma 
terial  good  we  fail  to  find  perfect  in  Lon 
don,  we  may  as  well  content  ourselves  to 
seek  that  unattainable  thing  no  farther  on 
this  earth. 

The  steamer  terminates  its  trip  at  Chel 
sea,  an  old  town  endowed  with  a  prodigious 
number  of  pothouses,  and  some  famous 
gardens,  called  the  Cremorne,  for  public 
amusement.  The  most  noticeable  thing, 
however,  is  Chelsea  Hospital,  which,  like 
that  of  Greenwich,  was  founded,  I  believe, 
by  Charles  II.  (whose  bronze  statue,  in  the 
guise  of  an  old  Roman,  stands  in  the  cen 
tre  of  the  quadrangle),  and  appropriated 
as  a  home  for  aged  and  infirm  soldiers  of 
the  British  army.  The  edifices  are  of  three 
stories,  with  windows  in  the  high  roofs, 
and  are  built  of  dark,  sombre  brick,  with 
stone  edgings  and  facings.  The  effect 
is  by  no  means  that  of  grandeur  (which 
is  somewhat  disagreeably  an  attribute  of 
Greenwich  Hospital),  but  a  quiet  and  ven 
erable  neatness.  At  each  extremity  of  the 
street-front  there  is  a  spacious  and  hospi 
tably  open  gateway,  lounging  about  which 
I  saw  some  gray  veterans  in  long  scarlet 
coats  of  an  antique  fashion,  and  the  cocked 
hats  of  a  century  ago,  or  occasionally  a 


434  OUR  OLD  HOME 

modern  foraging-cap.  Almost  all  of  them 
moved  with  a  rheumatic  gait,  two  or  three 
stumped  on  wooden  legs,  and  here  and 
there  an  arm  was  missing.  Inquiring  of 
one  of  these  fragmentary  heroes  whether 
a  stranger  could  be  admitted  to  see  the 
establishment,  he  replied  most  cordially, 
"  Oh  yes,  sir,  —  anywhere  !  Walk  in  and 
go  where  you  please,  —  upstairs,  or  any 
where  !  "  So  I  entered,  and,  passing  along 
the  inner  side  of  the  quadrangle,  came  to 
the  door  of  the  chapel,  which  forms  a  part 
of  the  contiguity  of  edifices  next  the  street. 
Here  another  pensioner,  an  old  warrior  of 
exceedingly  peaceable  and  Christian  rc- 
meanor,  touched  his  three-cornered  hat  dnd 
asked  if  I  wished  to  see  the  interior ;  to 
which  I  assenting,  he  unlocked  the  door, 
and  we  went  in. 

The  chapel  consists  of  a  great  hall  with 
a  vaulted  roof,  and  over  the  altar  is  a  large 
painting  in  fresco,  the  subject  of  which 
I  did  not  trouble  myself  to  make  out. 
More  appropriate  adornments  of  the  place, 
dedicated  as  well  to  martial  reminiscences 
as  religious  worship,  are  the  long  ranges 
of  dusty  and  tattered  banners,  that  hang 
from  their  staves  all  round  the  ceiling  of 
the  chapel.  They  are  trophies  of  battles 


UP   THE    THAMES  435 

fought  and  won  in  every  quarter  of  the 
world,  comprising  the  captured  flags  of  all 
the  nations  with  whom  the  British  lion 
has  waged  war  since  James  II.'s  time,  — 
French,  Dutch,  East  Indian,  Prussian,  Rus 
sian,  Chinese,  and  American,  —  collected 
together  in  this  consecrated  spot,  not  to 
symbolize  that  there  shall  be  no  more  dis 
cord  upon  earth,  but  drooping  over  the 
aisle  in  sullen,  though  peaceable,  humil 
iation.  Yes,  I  said  "American  "  among 
the  rest ;  for  the  good  old  pensioner  mis 
took  me  for  an  Englishman,  and  failed  not 
to  point  out  (and,  methought,  with  an  es 
pecial  emphasis  of  triumph)  some  flags 
that  had  been  taken  at  Bladensburg  and 
Washington.  I  fancied,  indeed,  that  they 
hung  a  little  higher  and  drooped  a  little 
lower  than  any  of  their  companions  in  dis 
grace.  It  is  a  comfort,  however,  that  their 
proud  devices  are  already  indistinguish 
able,  or  nearly  so,  owing  to  dust  and  tat 
ters  and  the  kind  offices  of  the  moths,  and 
that  they  will  soon  rot  from  the  banner- 
staves  and  be  swept  out  in  unrecognized 
fragments  from  the  chapel-door. 

It  is  a  good  method  of  teaching  a  man 
how  imperfectly  cosmopolitan  he  is,  to 
show  him  his  country's  flag  occupying  a 


436  OUR   OLD  HOME 

position  of  dishonor  in  a  foreign  land.  But, 
in  truth,  the  whole  system  of  a  people 
crowing  over  its  military  triumphs  had  far 
better  be  dispensed  with,  both  on  account 
of  the  ill-blood  that  it  helps  to  keep  fer 
menting  among  the  nations,  and  because 
it  operates  as  an  accumulative  inducement 
to  future  generations  to  aim  at  a  kind  of 
glory,  the  gain  of  which  has  generally 
proved  more  ruinous  than  its  loss.  I  heart 
ily  wish  that  every  trophy  of  victory  might 
crumble  away,  and  that  every  reminiscence 
or  tradition  of  a  hero,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  this  day,  could  pass  out  of 
all  men's  memories  at  once  and  forever. 
I  might  feel  very  differently,  to  be  sure,  if 
we  Northerners  had  anything  especially 
valuable  to  lose  by  the  fading  of  those  il 
luminated  names. 

I  gave  the  pensioner  (but  I  am  afraid 
there  may  have  been  a  little  affectation  in 
it)  a  magnificent  guerdon  of  all  the  silver 
I  had  in  my  pocket,  to  requite  him  for 
having  unintentionally  stirred  up  my  pa 
triotic  susceptibilities.  He  was  a  meek- 
looking,  kindly  old  man,  with  a  humble 
freedom  and  affability  of  manner  that  made 
it  pleasant  to  converse  with  him.  Old  sol 
diers,  I  know  not  why,  seem  to  be  more 


UP   THE    THAMES  437 

accostable  than  old  sailors.  One  is  apt  to 
hear  a  growl  beneath  the  smoothest  cour 
tesy  of  the  latter.  The  mild  veteran,  with 
his  peaceful  voice,  and  gentle  reverend 
aspect,  told  me  that  he  had  fought  at  a 
cannon  all  through  the  Battle  of  Waterloo, 
and  escaped  unhurt ;  he  had  now  been  in 
the  hospital  four  or  five  years,  and  was 
married,  but  necessarily  underwent  a  sep 
aration  from  his  wife,  who  lived  outside 
of  the  gates.  To  my  inquiry  whether  his 
fellow  -  pensioners  were  comfortable  and 
happy,  he  answered,  with  great  alacrity, 
"  Oh  yes,  sir  ! "  qualifying  his  evidence, 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  by  saying 
in  an  undertone,  "  There  are  some  people, 
your  Honor  knows,  who  could  not  be  com 
fortable  anywhere."  I  did  know  it,  and 
fear  that  the  system  of  Chelsea  Hospital 
allows  too  little  of  that  wholesome  care 
and  regulation  of  their  own  occupations 
and  interests  which  might  assuage  the 
sting  of  life  to  those  naturally  uncomfort 
able  individuals  by  giving  them  something 
external  to  think  about.  But  my  old  friend 
here  was  happy  in  the  hospital,  and  by  this 
time,  very  likely,  is  happy  in  heaven,  in 
spite  of  the  bloodshed  that  he  may  have 
caused  by  touching  off  a  cannon  at  Wa 
terloo. 


438  OUR  OLD  HOME 

Crossing  Battersea  Bridge,  in  the  neigh- 
borhood  of  Chelsea,  I  remember  seeing  a 
distant  gleam  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  glim 
mering  afar  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  like 
an  imaginary  structure,  —  an  air-castle  by 
chance  descended  upon  earth,  and  resting 
there  one  instant  before  it  vanished,  as  we 
sometimes  see  a  soap-bubble  touch  un 
harmed  on  the  carpet,  —  a  thing  of  only 
momentary  visibility  and  no  substance, 
destined  to  be  overburdened  and  crushed 
down  by  the  first  cloud-shadow  that  might 
fall  upon  that  spot.  Even  as  I  looked,  it 
disappeared.1  Shall  I  attempt  a  picture  of 
this  exhalation  of  modern  ingenuity,  or 
what  else  shall  I  try  to  paint  ?  Everything 
in  London  and  its  vicinity  has  been  depicted 
innumerable  times,  but  never  once  trans 
lated  into  intelligible  images;  it  is  an  ''old, 
old  story,"  never  yet  told,  nor  to  be  told. 
While  writing  these  reminiscences,  I  am 
continually  impressed  with  the  futility  of 

1  The  Crystal  Palace  gleamed  in  the  sunshine  ;  but  I 
do  not  think  a  very  impressive  edifice  can  be  built  of 
glass,  —  light  and  airy,  to  be  sure,  but  still  it  will  be  no 
other  than  an  overgrown  conservatory.  It  is  unlike 
anything  else  in  England ;  uncongenial  with  the  English 
character,  without  privacy,  destitute  of  mass,  weight,  and 
shadow,  unsusceptible  of  ivy,  lichens,  or  any  mellowness 
from  age.  —  II.  135. 


UP   THE    THAMES  439 

the  effort  to  give  any  creative  truth  to  my 
sketch,  so  that  it  might  produce  such  pic 
tures  in  the  reader's  mind  as  would  cause 
the  original  scenes  to  appear  familiar  when 
afterwards  beheld.  Nor  have  other  writers 
often  been  more  successful  in  representing 
definite  objects  prophetically  to  my  own 
mind.  In  truth,  I  believe  that  the  chief 
delight  and  advantage  of  this  kind  of  liter 
ature  is  not  for  any  real  information  that 
it  supplies  to  untraveled  people,  but  for 
reviving  the  recollections  and  reawakening 
the  emotions  of  persons  already  acquainted 
with  the  scenes  described.  Thus  I  found 
an  exquisite  pleasure,  the  other  day,  in 
reading  Mr.  Tuckerman's  "  Month  in  Eng 
land,  "  —  a  fine  example  of  the  way  in 
which  a  refined  and  cultivated  American 
looks  at  the  Old  Country,  the  things  that 
he  naturally  seeks  there,  and  the  modes  of 
feeling  and  reflection  which  they  excite. 
Correct  outlines  avail  little  or  nothing, 
though  truth  of  coloring  may  be  somewhat 
more  efficacious.  Impressions,  however, 
states  of  mind  produced  by  interesting  and 
-emarkable  objects,  these,  if  truthfully  and 
vividly  recorded,  may  work  a  genuine  effect, 
and,  though  but  the  result  of  what  we  see, 
go  further  towards  representing  the  actual 


440  OUR   OLD  HOME 

scene  than  any  direct  effort  to  paint  it. 
Give  the  emotions  that  cluster  about  it, 
and,  without  being  able  to  analyze  the  spell 
by  which  it  is  summoned  up,  you  get  some 
thing  like  a  simulachre  of  the  object  in  the 
midst  of  them.  From  some  of  the  above 
reflections  I  draw  the  comfortable  infer 
ence,  that,  the  longer  and  better  known  a 
thing  may  be,  so  much  the  more  eligible  is 
it  as  the  subject  of  a  descriptive  sketch. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  I  passed  through 
a  side-entrance  in  the  time-blackened  wall 
of  a  place  of  worship,  and  found  myself 
among  a  congregation  assembled  in  one  of 
the  transepts  and  the  immediately  contig 
uous  portion  of  the  nave.  It  was  a  vast 
old  edifice,  spacious  enough,  within  the  ex 
tent  covered  by  its  pillared  roof  and  over 
spread  by  its  stone  pavement,  to  accommo 
date  the  whole  of  church -going  Londonr 
and  with  a  far  wider  and  loftier  concave 
than  any  human  power  of  lungs  could  fill 
with  audible  prayer.  Oaken  benches  were 
arranged  in  the  transept,  on  one  of  which 
I  seated  myself,  and  joined,  as  well  as  I 
knew  how,  in  the  sacred  business  that  was 
going  forward.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
sermon,  the  voice  of  the  preacher  was 
puny,  and  so  were  his  thoughts,  and  both 


UP   THE    THAMES  441 

seemed  impertinent  at  such  a  time  and 
place,  where  he  and  all  of  us  were  bodily 
included  within  a  sublime  act  of  religion, 
which  could  be  seen  above  and  around  us 
and  felt  beneath  our  feet.  The  structure 
itself  was  the  worship  of  the  devout  men 
of  long  ago,  miraculously  preserved  in  stone 
without  losing  an  atom  of  its  fragrance 
and  fervor ;  it  was  a  kind  of  anthem-strain 
that  they  had  sung  and  poured  out  of  the 
organ  in  centuries  gone  by ;  and  being  so 
grand  and  sweet,  the  Divine  benevolence 
had  willed  it  to  be  prolonged  for  the  behoof 
of  auditors  unborn.  I  therefore  came  to 
the  conclusion,  that,  in  my  individual  case, 
it  would  be  better  and  more  reverent  to 
let  my  eyes  wander  about  the  edifice  than 
to  fasten  them  and  my  thoughts  on  the 
evidently  uninspired  mortal  who  was  ven 
turing  —  and  felt  it  no  venture  at  all  —  to 
speak  here  above  his  breath. 

The  interior  of  Westminster  Abbey  (for 
the  reader  recognized  it,  no  doubt,  the 
moment  we  entered)  is  built  of  rich  brown 
stone;  and  the  whole  of  it — the  lofty  roof, 
the  tall,  clustered  pillars,  and  the  pointed 
arches  —  appears  to  be  in  consummate  re 
pair.  At  all  points  where  decay  has  laid 
its  finger,  the  structure  is  clamped  with 


442  OUR   OLD   HOME 

iron  or  otherwise  carefully  protected  ;  and 
being  thus  watched  over,  —  whether  as  a 
place  of  ancient  sanctity,  a  noble  specimen 
of  Gothic  art,  or  an  object  of  national  inter 
est  and  pride,  —  it  may  reasonably  be  ex 
pected  to  survive  for  as  many  ages  as  have 
passed  over  it  already.  It  was  sweet  to 
feel  its  venerable  quietude,  its  long-endur 
ing  peace,  and  yet  to  observe  how  kindly 
and  even  cheerfully  it  received  the  sun 
shine  of  to-day,  which  fell  from  the  great 
windows  into  the  fretted  aisles  and  arches 
that  laid  aside  somewhat  of  their  aged 
gloom  to  welcome  it.  Sunshine  always 
seems  friendly  to  old  abbeys,  churches,  and 
castles,  kissing  them,  as  it  were,  with  a 
more  affectionate,  though  still  reverential 
familiarity,  than  it  accords  to  edifices  of 
later  date.  A  square  of  golden  light  lay 
on  the  sombre  pavement  of  the  nave,  afar 
off,  falling  through  the  grand  western  en 
trance,  the  folding  leaves  of  which  were 
wide  open,  and  afforded  glimpses  of  people 
passing  to  and  fro  in  the  outer  world,  while 
we  sat  dimly  enveloped  in  the  solemnity  of 
antique  devotion.  In  the  south  transept, 
separated  from  us  by  the  full  breadth  of 
the  minster,  there  were  painted  glass  win 
dows,  of  which  the  uppermost  appeared  to 


UP   THE    THAMES  443 

be  a  great  orb  of  many-colored  radiance, 
being,  indeed,  a  cluster  of  saints  and  angels 
whose  glorified  bodies  formed  the  rays  of 
an  aureole  emanating  from  a  cross  in  the 
midst.  These  windows  are  modern,  but 
combine  softness  with  wonderful  brilliancy 
of  effect.  Through  the  pillars  and  arches, 
I  saw  that  the  walls  in  that  distant  region 
of  the  edifice  were  almost  wholly  incrusted 
with  marble,  now  grown  yellow  with  time, 
no  blank,  unlettered  slabs,  but  memorials 
of  such  men  as  their  respective  generations 
deemed  wisest  and  bravest.  Some  of  them 
were  commemorated  merely  by  inscriptions 
on  mural  tablets,  others  by  sculptured  bas- 
reliefs,  others  (once  famous,  but  now  for 
gotten,  generals  or  admirals,  these)  by 
ponderous  tombs  that  aspired  towards  the 
roof  of  the  aisle,  or  partly  curtained  the 
immense  arch  of  a  window.  These  moun 
tains  of  marble  were  peopled  with  the 
sisterhood  of  Allegory,  winged  trumpeters, 
and  classic  figures  in  full-bottomed  wigs ; 
but  it  was  strange  to  observe  how  the  old 
Abbey  melted  all  such  absurdities  into  the 
breadth  of  its  own  grandeur,  even  magnify 
ing  itself  by  what  would  elsewhere  have 
been  ridiculous.  Methinks  it  is  the  test 
of  Gothic  sublimity  to  overpower  the  ridic 


444  OUR  OLD  HOME 

ulous  without  deigning  to  hide  it ;  and 
these  grotesque  monuments  of  the  last 
century  answer  a  similar  purpose  with  the 
grinning  faces  which  the  old  architects 
scattered  among  their  most  solemn  con 
ceptions. 

From  these  distant  wanderings  (it  was 
my  first  visit  to  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
I  would  gladly  have  taken  it  all  in  at  a 
glance)  my  eyes  came  back  and  began  to 
investigate  what  was  immediately  about 
me  in  the  transept.  Close  at  my  elbow 
was  the  pedestal  of  Canning's  statue.  Next 
beyond  it  was  a  massive  tomb,  on  the  spa 
cious  tablet  of  which  reposed  the  full- 
length  figures  of  a  marble  lord  and  lady, 
whom  an  inscription  announced  to  be  the 
Duke  and  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  —  the 
historic  Duke  of  Charles  I.'s  time,  and  the 
fantastic  Duchess,  traditionally  remembered 
by  her  poems  and  plays.  She  was  of  a 
family,  as  the  record  on  her  tomb  proudly 
informed  us,  of  which  all  the  brothers  had 
been  valiant  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous. 
A  recent  statue  of  Sir  John  Malcolm,  the 
new  marble  as  white  as  snow,  held  the 
next  place  ;  and  near  by  was  a  mural  mon 
ument  and  bust  of  Sir  Peter  Warren.  The 
round  visage  of  this  old  British  admiral 


UP   THE    THAMES  445 

has  a  certain  interest  for  a  New-Englander, 
because  it  was  by  no  merit  of  his  own 
(though  he  took  care  to  assume  it  as  such), 
but  by  the  valor  and  warlike  enterprise 
of  our  colonial  forefathers,  especially  the 
stout  men  of  Massachusetts,  that  he  won 
rank  and  renown,  and  a  tomb  in  West 
minster  Abbey.  Lord  Mansfield,  a  huge 
mass  of  marble  done  into  the  guise  of  a 
judicial  gown  and  wig,  with  a  stern  face  in 
the  midst  of  the  latter,  sat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  transept ;  and  on  the  pedestal 
beside  him  was  a  figure  of  Justice,  holding 
forth,  instead  of  the  customary  grocer's 
scales,  an  actual  pair  of  brass  steelyards. 
It  is  an  ancient  and  classic  instrument,  un 
doubtedly  ;  but  I  had  supposed  that  Portia 
(when  Shylock's  pound  of  flesh  was  to  be 
weighed)  was  the  only  judge  that  ever 
really  called  for  it  in  a  court  of  justice. 
Pitt  and  Fox  were  in  the  same  distin 
guished  company ;  and  John  Kemble,  in 
Roman  costume,  stood  not  far  off,  but 
strangely  shorn  of  the  dignity  that  is  said 
to  have  enveloped  him  like  a  mantle  in  his 
lifetime.  Perhaps  the  evanescent  majesty 
of  the  stage  is  incompatible  with  the  long 
endurance  of  marble  and  the  solemn  reality 
of  the  tomb ;  though,  on  the  other  hand, 


446  OUR   OLD  HOME 

almost  every  illustrious  personage  here  rep- 
resented  has  been  invested  with  more  or 
less  of  stage-trickery  by  his  sculptor.  In 
truth,  the  artist  (unless  there  be  a  divine 
efficacy  in  his  touch,  making  evident  a 
heretofore  hidden  dignity  in  the  actual 
form)  feels  it  an  imperious  law  to  remove 
his  subject  as  far  from  the  aspect  of  or 
dinary  life  as  may  be  possible  without  sac 
rificing  every  trace  of  resemblance.  The 
absurd  effect  of  the  contrary  course  is  very 
remarkable  in  the  statue  of  Mr.  Wilber- 
force,  whose  actual  self,  save  for  the  lack 
of  color,  I  seemed  to  behold,  seated  just 
across  the  aisle. 

This  excellent  man  appears  to  have  sunk 
into  himself  in  a  sitting  posture,  with  a 
thin  leg  crossed  over  his  knee,  a  book  in 
one  hand,  and  a  finger  of  the  other  under 
his  chin,  I  believe,  or  applied  to  the  side 
of  his  nose,  or  to  some  equally  familiar 
purpose ;  while  his  exceedingly  homely  and 
wrinkled  face,  held  a  little  on  one  side, 
twinkles  at  you  with  the  shrewdest  com 
placency,  as  if  he  were  looking  right  into 
your  eyes,  and  twigged  something  there 
which  you  had  half  a  mind  to  conceal 
from  him.  He  keeps  this  look  so  pertina 
ciously  that  you  feel  it  to  be  insufferably 


UP   THE   THAMES  447 

impertinent,  and  bethink  yourself  what 
common  ground  there  may  be  between 
yourself  and  a  stone  image,  enabling  you 
to  resent  it.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
statue  is  as  like  Mr.  Wilberforce  as  one 
pea  to  another,  and  you  might  fancy,  that, 
at  some  ordinary  moment,  when  he  least 
expected  it,  and  before  he  had  time  to 
smooth  away  his  knowing  complication  of 
wrinkles,  he  had  seen  the  Gorgon's  head, 
and  whitened  into  marble,  —  not  only  his 
personal  self,  but  his  coat  and  small-clothes, 
down  to  a  button  and  the  minutest  crease 
of  the  cloth.  The  ludicrous  result  marks 
the  impropriety  of  bestowing  the  age-long 
duration  of  marble  upon  small,  character 
istic  individualities,  such  as  might  come 
within  the  province  of  waxen  imagery. 
The  sculptor  should  give  permanence  to 
the  figure  of  a  great  man  in  his  mood  of 
broad  and  grand  composure,  which  would 
obliterate  all  mean  peculiarities  ;  for,  if 
the  original  were  unaccustomed  to  such  a 
mood,  or  if  his  features  were  incapable  of 
assuming  the  guise,  it  seems  questionable 
whether  he  could  really  have  been  entitled 
to  a  marble  immortality.  In  point  of  fact, 
however,  the  English  face  and  form  are 
seldom  statuesque,  however  illustrious  the 
individual. 


448  OUR   OLD  HOME 

It  ill  becomes  me,  perhaps,  to  have  lapsed 
into  this  mood  of  half-jocose  criticism  in 
describing  my  first  visit  to  Westminster 
Abbey,  a  spot  which  I  had  dreamed  about 
more  reverentially,  from  my  childhood  up 
ward,  than  any  other  in  the  world,  and 
which  I  then  beheld,  and  now  look  back 
upon,  with  profound  gratitude  to  the  men 
who  built  it,  and  a  kindly  interest,  I  may 
add,  in  the  humblest  personage  that  has 
contributed  his  little  all  to  its  impressive- 
ness,  by  depositing  his  dust  or  his  memory 
there.  But  it  is  a  characteristic  of  this 
grand  edifice  that  it  permits  you  to  smile 
as  freely  under  the  roof  of  its  central  nave 
as  if  you  stood  beneath  the  yet  grander 
canopy  of  heaven.  Break  into  laughter,  if 
you  feel  inclined,  provided  the  vergers  do 
not  hear  it  echoing  among  the  arches.  In 
an  ordinary  church  you  would  keep  your 
countenance  for  fear  of  disturbing  the 
sanctities  or  proprieties  of  the  place  ;  but 
you  need  leave  no  honest  and  decorous 
portion  of  your  human  nature  outside  of 
these  benign  and  truly  hospitable  walls. 
Their  mild  awfulness  will  take  care  of  it 
self.  Thus  it  does  no  harm  to  the  general 
impression,  when  you  come  to  be  sensible 
that  many  of  the  monuments  are  ridiculous; 


UP  THE    THAMES  449 

and  commemorate  a  mob  of  people  who 
are  mostly  forgotten  in  their  graves,  and 
few  of  whom  ever  deserved  any  better 
boon  from  posterity.  You  acknowledge 
the  force  of  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller's  objection 
to  being  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
because  "  they  do  bury  fools  there ! " 
Nevertheless,  these  grotesque  carvings 
of  marble,  that  break  out  in  dingy-white 
blotches  on  the  old  freestone  of  the  inte 
rior  walls,  have  come  there  by  as  natural  a 
process  as  might  cause  mosses  and  ivy  to 
cluster  about  the  external  edifice  ;  for  they 
are  the  historical  and  biographical  record 
of  each  successive  age,  written  with  its 
own  hand,  and  all  the  truer  for  the  inevi 
table  mistakes,  and  none  the  less  solemn 
for  the  occasional  absurdity.  Though  you 
entered  the  Abbey  expecting  to  see  the 
tombs  only  of  the  illustrious,  you  are  con 
tent  at  last  to  read  many  names,  both  in 
literature  and  history,  that  have  now  lost 
the  reverence  of  mankind,  if  indeed  they 
ever  really  possessed  it.  Let  these  men 
rest  in  peace.  Even  if  you  miss  a  name 
or  two  that  you  hoped  to  find  there,  they 
may  well  be  spared.  It  matters  little  a 
few  more  or  less,  or  whether  Westminster 
Abbey  contains  or  lacks  any  one  man's 


45 O  OUR   OLD   HOME 

grave,  so  long  as  the  Centuries,  each  with 
the  crowd  of  personages  that  it  deemed 
memorable,  have  chosen  it  as  their  place 
of  honored  sepulture,  and  laid  themselves 
down  under  its  pavement.  The  inscrip 
tions  and  devices  on  the  walls  are  rich 
with  evidences  of  the  fluctuating  tastes, 
fashions,  manners,  opinions,  prejudices, 
follies,  wisdoms,  of  the  past,  and  thus  they 
combine  into  a  more  truthful  memorial  of 
their  dead  times  than  any  individual  epi 
taph-maker  ever  meant  to  write. 

When  the  services  were  over,  many  of 
the  audience  seemed  inclined  to  linger  in 
the  nave  or  wander  away  among  the  mys 
terious  aisles  ;  for  there  is  nothing  in  this 
world  so  fascinating  as  a  Gothic  minster, 
which  always  invites  you  deeper  and  deeper 
into  its  heart  both  by  vast  revelations  and 
shadowy  concealments.  Through  the  open 
work  screen  that  divides  the  nave  from 
the  chancel  and  choir,  we  could  discern 
the  gleam  of  a  marvelous  window,  but 
were  debarred  from  entrance  into  that 
more  sacred  precinct  of  the  Abbey  by  the 
vergers.  These  vigilant  officials  (doing 
their  duty  all  the  more  strenuously  because 
no  fees  could  be  exacted  from  Sunday 
visitors)  flourished  their  staves,  and  drove 


UP    THE    THAMES  451 

us  towards  the  grand  entrance  like  a  flock 
of  sheep.  Lingering  through  one  of  the 
aisles,  I  happened  to  look  down,  and  found 
my  foot  upon  a  stone  inscribed  with  this 
familiar  exclamation,  "O  rare  Ben  Jons  on  !  " 
and  remembered  the  story  of  stout  old 
Ben's  burial  in  that  spot,  standing  upright, 
—  not,  I  presume,  on  account  of  any  un 
seemly  reluctance  on  his  part  to  lie  down 
in  the  dust,  like  other  men,  but  because 
standing-room  was  all  that  could  reason 
ably  be  demanded  for  a  poet  among  the 
slumberous  notabilities  of  his  age.  It  made 
me  weary  to  think  of  it !  —  such  a  pro 
digious  length  of  time  to  keep  one's  feet ! 
• — apart  from  the  honor  of  the  thing,  it 
would  certainly  have  been  better  for  Ben 
to  stretch  himself  at  ease  in  some  country 
churchyard.  To  this  day,  however,  I  fancy 
that  there  is  a  contemptuous  alloy  mixed 
up  with  the  admiration  which  the  higher 
classes  of  English  society  profess  for  their 
literary  men. 

Another  day  —  in  truth,  many  other 
days  —  I  sought  out  Poets'  Corner,  and 
found  a  sign -board  and  pointed  finger 
directing  the  visitor  to  it,  on  the  corner 
house  of  a  little  lane  leading  towards  the 
rear  of  the  Abbey.  The  entrance  is  at  the 


452  OUR   OLD  HOME 

southeastern  end  of  the  south  transept,  and 
it  is  used,  on  ordinary  occasions,  as  the 
only  free  mode  of  access  to  the  building. 
It  is  no  spacious  arch,  but  a  small,  lowly 
door,  passing  through  which,  and  pushing 
aside  an  inner  screen  that  partly  keeps  out 
an  exceedingly  chill  wind,  you  find  yourself 
in  a  dim  nook  of  the  Abbey,  with  the  busts 
of  poets  gazing  at  you  from  the  otherwise 
bare  stone-work  of  the  walls.  Great  poets, 
too  ;  for  Ben  Jonson  is  right  behind  the 
door,  and  Spenser's  tablet  is  next,  and 
Butler's  on  the  same  side  of  the  transept, 
and  Milton's  (whose  bust  you  know  at  once 
by  its  resemblance  to  one  of  his  portraits, 
though  older,  more  wrinkled,  and  sadder 
than  that)  is  close  by,  and  a  profile-medal 
lion  of  Gray  beneath  it.  A  window  high 
aloft  sheds  down  a  dusky  daylight  on  these 
and  many  other  sculptured  marbles,  now 
as  yellow  as  old  parchment,  that  cover  the 
three  walls  of  the  nook  up  to  an  elevation 
of  about  twenty  feet  above  the  pavement. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  always  been 
familiar  with  the  spot.  Enjoying  a  humble 
intimacy  —  and  how  much  of  my  life  had 
else  been  a  dreary  solitude  !  —  with  many 
of  its  inhabitants,  I  could  not  feel  myself 
a  stranger  there.  It  was  delightful  to  be 


UP    THE    THAMES  453 

among  them.  There  was  a  genial  awe, 
mingled  with  a  sense  of  kind  and  friendly 
presences  about  me ;  and  I  was  glad,  more 
over,  at  finding  so  many  of  them  there 
together,  in  fit  companionship,  mutually 
recognized  and  duly  honored,  all  reconciled 
now,  whatever  distant  generations,  what 
ever  personal  hostility  or  other  miserable 
impediment,  had  divided  them  far  asunder 
while  they  lived.  I  have  never  felt  a 
similar  interest  in  any  other  tombstones, 
nor  have  I  ever  been  deeply  moved  by  the 
imaginary  presence  of  other  famous  dead 
peop.e.  A  poet's  ghost  is  the  only  one 
that  survives  for  his  fellow  -  mortals,  after 
his  bones  are  in  the  dust, — and  he  not 
ghostly,  but  cherishing  many  hearts  with 
his  own  warmth  in  the  chillest  atmosphere 
of  life.  What  other  fame  is  worth  aspir 
ing  for  ?  Or,  let  me  speak  it  more  boldly, 
what  other  long-enduring  fame  can  exist  ? 
We  neither  remember  nor  care  anything 
for  the  past,  except  as  the  poet  has  made 
it  intelligibly  noble  and  sublime  to  our 
comprehension.  The  shades  of  the  mighty 
have  no  substance ;  they  flit  ineffectually 
about  the  darkened  stage  where  they  per 
formed  their  momentary  parts,  save,  when 
the  poet  has  thrown  his  own  creative  soul 


454  OUR  OLD  HOME 

into  them,  and  imparted  a  more  vivid  life 
than  ever  they  were  able  to  manifest  to 
mankind  while  they  dwelt  in  the  body. 
And  therefore — though  he  cunningly  dis 
guises  himself  in  their  armor,  their  robes 
of  state,  or  kingly  purple  —  it  is  not  the 
statesman,  the  warrior,  or  the  monarch 
that  survives,  but  the  despised  poet,  whom 
they  may  have  fed  with  their  crumbs,  and 
to  whom  they  owe  all  that  they  now  are  or 
have,  —  a  name  ! 1 

1  September  30, 1855.  Poets'  Corner  has  never  seemed 
like  a  strange  place  to  me ;  it  has  been  familiar  from  the 
very  first;  at  all  events,  I  cannot  now  recollect  the  pre 
vious  conception,  of  which  the  reality  has  taken  the  place. 
I  seem  always  to  have  known  that  somewhat  dim 
corner,  with  the  bare  brown  stone-work  of  the  old  edi 
fice  aloft,  and  a  window  shedding  down  its  light  on  the 
marble  busts  and  tablets,  yellow  with  time,  that  cover 
the  three  walls  of  the  nook  up  to  a  height  of  about 
twenty  feet.  Prior's  is  the  largest  and  richest  monu 
ment.  It  is  observable  that  the  bust  and  monument  of 
Congreve  are  in  a  distant  part  of  the  Abbey.  His 
duchess  probably  thought  it  a  degradation  to  bring  a 
gentleman  among  the  beggarly  poets.  —  II.  153. 

November  12,  1857.  We  found  our  way  to  Poets'  Cor 
ner,  however,  and  entered  those  holy  precincts,  which 
looked  very  dusky  and  grim  in  the  smoky  light.  ...  I 
was  strongly  impressed  with  the  perception  that  very 
commonplace  people  compose  the  great  bulk  of  society 
in  the  home  of  the  illustrious  dead.  It  is  wonderful 
how  few  names  there  are  that  one  cares  anything  about 
a  hundred  years  after  their  departure  ;  but  perhaps  each 


UP   THE    THAMES  455 

In  the  foregoing  paragraph  I  seem  to 
have  been  betrayed  into  a  flight  above 
or  beyond  the  customary  level  that  best 
agrees  with  me  ;  but  it  represents  fairly 
enough  the  emotions  with  which  I  passed 
from  Poets'  Corner  into  the  chapels,  which 
contain  the  sepulchres  of  kings  and  great 
people.  They  are  magnificent  even  now, 
and  must  have  been  inconceivably  so  when 
the  marble  slabs  and  pillars  wore  their  new 
polish,  and  the  statues  retained  the  brilliant 
colors  with  which  they  were  originally 
painted,  and  the  shrines  their  rich  gilding, 
of  which  the  sunlight  still  shows  a  glimmer 
or  a  streak,  though  the  sunbeam  itself  looks 
tarnished  with  antique  dust.  Yet  this  rec 
ondite  portion  of  the  Abbey  presents  few 
memorials  of  personages  whom  we  care 
to  remember.  The  shrine  of  Edward  the 
Confessor  has  a  certain  interest,  because 
it  was  so  long  held  in  religious  reverence, 
and  because  the  very  dust  that  settled 
upon  it  was  formerly  worth  gold.  The 
helmet  and  war-saddle  of  Henry  V.,  worn 

generation  acts  in  good  faith  in  canonizing  its  own 
men.  .  .  .  But  the  fame  of  the  buried  person  does  not 
make  the  marble  live,  —  the  marble  keeps  merely  a  cold 
and  sad  memory  of  a  man  who  would  else  be  forgotten. 
No  man  who  needs  a  monument  ever  ought  to  have 
one.  —  II.  565. 


456  OUR   OLD   HOME 

at  Agincourt,  and  now  suspended  above 
his  tomb,  are  memorable  objects,  but  more 
for  Shakespeare's  sake  than  the  victor's 
own.  Rank  has  been  the  general  pass 
port  to  admission  here.  Noble  and  regal 
dust  is  as  cheap  as  dirt  under  the  pave 
ment.  I  am  glad  to  recollect,  indeed  (and 
it  is  too  characteristic  of  the  right  Eng 
lish  spirit  not  to  be  mentioned),  one  or 
two  gigantic  statues  of  great  mechanicians, 
who  contributed  largely  to  the  material 
welfare  of  England,  sitting  familiarly  in 
their  marble  chairs  among  forgotten  kings 
and  queens.  Otherwise,  the  quaintness  of 
the  earlier  monuments,  and  the  antique 
beauty  of  some  of  them,  are  what  chiefly 
gives  them  value.  Nevertheless,  Addison 
is  buried  among  the  men  of  rank  ;  not  on 
the  plea  of  his  literary  fame,  however,  but 
because  he  was  connected  with  nobility  by 
marriage,  and  had  been  a  Secretary  of 
State.  His  gravestone  is  inscribed  with  a 
resounding  verse  from  Tickell's  lines  to 
his  memory,  the  only  lines  by  which  Tick- 
ell  himself  is  now  remembered,  and  which 
(as  I  discovered  a  little  while  ago)  he 
mainly  filched  from  an  obscure  versifier  of 
somewhat  earlier  date. 

Returning   to    Poets'    Corner,  I   looked 


UP   THE    THAMES  457 

again  at  the  walls,  and  wondered  how  the 
requisite  hospitality  can  be  shown  to  poets 
of  our  own  and  the  succeeding  ages.  There 
is  hardly  a  foot  of  space  left,  although 
room  has  lately  been  found  for  a  bust  of 
Southey  and  a  full-length  statue  of  Camp 
bell.  At  best,  only  a  little  portion  of  the 
Abbey  is  dedicated  to  poets,  literary  men, 
musical  composers,  and  others  of  the  gen 
tle  artist  breed,  and  even  into  that  small 
nook  of  sanctity  men  of  other  pursuits  have 
thought  it  decent  to  intrude  themselves. 
Methinks  the  tuneful  throng,  being  at 
home  here,  should  recollect  how  they  were 
treated  in  their  lifetime,  and  turn  the  cold 
shoulder,  looking  askance  at  nobles  and 
official  personages,  however  worthy  of 
honorable  interment  elsewhere.  Yet  it 
shows  aptly  and  truly  enough  what  portion 
of  the  world's  regard  and  honor  has  hereto 
fore  been  awarded  to  literary  eminence  in 
comparison  with  other  modes  of  greatness, 
—  this  dimly  lighted  corner  (nor  even  that 
quietly  to  themselves)  in  the  vast  minster 
the  walls  of  which  are  sheathed  and  hidden 
under  marble  that  has  been  wasted  upon 
the  illustrious  obscure.  Nevertheless,  it 
may  not  be  worth  while  to  quarrel  with  the 
world  on  this  account ;  for,  to  confess  the 


458  OUR   OLD   HOME 

very  truth,  their  own  little  nook  contains 
more  than  one  poet  whose  memory  is  kept 
alive  by  his  monument,  instead  of  imbuing 
the  senseless  stone  with  a  spiritual  immor 
tality,  —  men  of  whom  you  do  not  ask, 
"  Where  is  he  ?  "  but,  "  Why  is  he  here  ?  " 
I  estimate  that  all  the  literary  people  who 
really  make  an  essential  part  of  one's  inner 
life,  including  the  period  since  English 
literature  first  existed,  might  have  ample 
elbow-room  to  sit  down  and  quaff  their 
draughts  of  Castaly  round  Chaucer's  broad, 
horizontal  tombstone.  These  divinest  poets 
consecrate  the  spot,  and  throw  a  reflected 
glory  over  the  humblest  of  their  com 
panions.  And  as  for  the  latter,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  they  may  have  long  outgrown 
the  characteristic  jealousies  and  morbid 
sensibilities  of  their  craft,  and  have  found 
out  the  little  value  (probably  not  amount 
ing  to  sixpence  in  immortal  currency)  of 
the  posthumous  renown  which  they  once 
aspired  to  win.  It  would  be  a  poor  com 
pliment  to  a  dead  poet  to  fancy  him  leaning 
out  of  the  sky  and  snuffing  up  the  impure 
breath  of  earthly  praise. 

Yet  we  cannot  easily  rid  ourselves  of 
the  notion  that  those  who  have  bequeathed 
us  the  inheritance  of  an  undying  song 


UP   THE    THAMES  459 

would  fain  be  conscious  of  its  endless 
reverberations  in  the  hearts  of  mankind, 
and  would  delight,  among  sublimer  enjoy 
ments,  to  see  their  names  emblazoned  in 
such  a  treasure -place  of  great  memories 
as  Westminster  Abbey.  There  are  some 
men,  at  all  events,  — true  and  tender  poets, 
moreover,  and  fully  deserving  of  the  honor, 
—  whose  spirits,  I  feel  certain,  would  linger 
a  little  while  about  Poets'  Corner,  for  the 
sake  of  witnessing  their  own  apotheosis 
among  their  kindred.  They  have  had  a 
strong  natural  yearning,  not  so  much  for 
applause  as  sympathy,  which  the  cold  for 
tune  of  their  lifetime  did  but  scantily  sup 
ply  ;  so  that  this  unsatisfied  appetite  may 
make  itself  felt  upon  sensibilities  at  once 
so  delicate  and  retentive,  even  a  step  or 
two  beyond  the  grave.  Leigh  Hunt,  for 
example,  would  be  pleased,  even  now,  if  he 
could  learn  that  his  bust  had  been  reposited 
in  the  midst  of  the  old  poets  whom  he  ad 
mired  and  loved  ;  though  there  is  hardly  a 
man  among  the  authors  of  to-day  and  yes 
terday  whom  the  judgment  of  Englishmen 
would  be  less  likely  to  place  there.  He 
deserves  it,  however,  if  not  for  his  verse 
(the  value  of  which  I  do  not  estimate, 
never  having  been  able  to  read  it),  yet  for 


460  OUR   OLD  HOME 

his  delightful  prose,  his  unmeasured  po 
etry,  the  inscrutable  happiness  of  his  touch, 
working  soft  miracles  by  a  life-process  like 
the  growth  of  grass  and  flowers.  As  with 
all  such  gentle  writers,  his  page  sometimes 
betrayed  a  vestige  of  affectation,  but,  the 
next  moment,  a  rich,  natural  luxuriance 
overgrew  and  buried  it  out  of  sight.  I 
knew  him  a  little,  and  (since,  Heaven  be 
praised,  few  English  celebrities  whom  I 
chanced  to  meet  have  enfranchised  my  pen 
by  their  decease,  and  as  I  assume  no  liber 
ties  with  living  men)  I  will  conclude  this 
rambling  article  by  sketching  my  first  in 
terview  with  Leigh  Hunt. 

He  was  then  at  Hammersmith,  occupy 
ing  a  very  plain  and  shabby  little  house,  in 
a  contiguous  range  of  others  like  it,  with 
no  prospect  but  that  of  an  ugly  village 
street,  and  certainly  nothing  to  gratify  his 
craving  for  a  tasteful  environment,  inside 
or  out.  A  slatternly  maid-servant  opened 
the  door  for  us,  and  he  himself  stood  in 
the  entry,  a  beautiful  and  venerable  old 
man,  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  a  black  dress- 
coat,  tall  and  slender,  with  a  countenance 
quietly  alive  all  over,  and  the  gentlest  and 
most  naturally  courteous  manner.  He 
ushered  us  into  his  little  study,  or  parlor, 


UP   THE    THAMES  461 

or  both,  —  a  very  forlorn  room,  with  poor 
paper-hangings  and  carpet,  few  books,  no 
pictures  that  I  remember,  and  an  awful 
lack  of  upholstery.  I  touch  distinctly  upon 
these  external  blemishes  and  this  nudity  of 
adornment,  not  that  they  would  be  worth 
mentioning  in  a  sketch  of  other  remarkable 
persons,  but  because  Leigh  Hunt  was  born 
with  such  a  faculty  of  enjoying  all  beauti 
ful  things  that  it  seemed  as  if  Fortune  did 
him  as  much  wrong  in  not  supplying  them 
as  in  withholding  a  sufficiency  of  vital 
breath  from  ordinary  men.  All  kinds  of 
mild  magnificence,  tempered  by  his  taste, 
would  have  become  him  well ;  but  he  had 
not  the  grim  dignity  that  assumes  naked 
ness  as  the  better  robe. 

I  have  said  that  he  was  a  beautiful  old 
man.  In  truth,  I  never  saw  a  finer  coun 
tenance,  either  as  to  the  mould  of  features 
or  the  expression,  nor  any  that  showed  the 
play  of  feeling  so  perfectly  without  the 
slightest  theatrical  emphasis.  It  was  like 
a  child's  face  in  this  respect.  At  my  first 
glimpse  of  him,  when  he  met  us  in  the 
entry,  I  discerned  that  he  was  old,  his  long 
hair  being  white  and  his  wrinkles  many ; 
it  was  an  aged  visage,  in  short,  such  as  I 
had  not  at  all  expected  to  see,  in  spite  of 


462  OUR   OLD  HOME 

dates,  because  his  books  talk  to  the  reader 
with  the  tender  vivacity  of  youth.  But 
when  he  began  to  speak,  and  as  he  grew 
more  earnest  in  conversation,  I  ceased  to 
be  sensible  of  his  age ;  sometimes,  indeed, 
its  dusky  shadow  darkened  through  the 
gleam  which  his  sprightly  thoughts  dif 
fused  about  his  face,  but  then  another 
flash  of  youth  came  out  of  his  eyes  and 
made  an  illumination  again.  I  never  wit 
nessed  such  a  wonderfully  illusive  trans 
formation,  before  or  since ;  and,  to  this 
day,  trusting  only  to  my  recollection,  I 
should  find  it  difficult  to  decide  which  was 
his  genuine  and  stable  predicament,  — 
youth  or  age.  I  have  met  no  Englishman 
whose  manners  seemed  to  me  so  agreeable, 
soft,  rather  than  polished,  wholly  uncon 
ventional,  the  natural  growth  of  a  kindly 
and  sensitive  disposition  without  any  refer 
ence  to  rule,  or  else  obedient  to  some  rule 
so  subtile  that  the  nicest  observer  could 
not  detect  the  application  of  it. 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  very  fine,  and 
his  delightful  voice  accompanied  their  vis 
ible  language  like  music.  He  appeared  to 
be  exceedingly  appreciative  of  whatever 
was  passing  among  those  who  surrounded 
him,  and  especially  of  the  vicissitudes  in 


UP  THE    THAMES  463 

the  consciousness  of  the  person  to  whom 
he  happened  to  be  addressing  himself  at 
the  moment.  I  felt  that  no  effect  upon 
my  mind  of  what  he  uttered,  no  emotion, 
however  transitory,  in  myself,  escaped  his 
notice,  though  not  from  any  positive  vigi 
lance  on  his  part,  but  because  his  faculty  of 
observation  was  so  penetrative  and  delicate ; 
and  to  say  the  truth,  it  a  little  confused  me 
to  discern  always  a  ripple  on  his  mobile 
face,  responsive  to  any  slightest  breeze  that 
passed  over  the  inner  reservoir  of  my  senti 
ments,  and  seemed  thence  to  extend  to  a 
similar  reservoir  within  himself.  On  mat 
ters  of  feeling,  and  within  a  certain  depth, 
you  might  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of 
utterance,  because  he  already  knew  what 
you  wanted  to  say,  and  perhaps  a  little 
more  than  you  would  have  spoken.  His 
figure  was  full  of  gentle  movement,  though, 
somehow,  without  disturbing  its  quietude ; 
and  as  he  talked,  he  kept  folding  his  hands 
nervously,  and  betokened  in  many  ways  a 
fine  and  immediate  sensibility,  quick  to  feel 
pleasure  or  pain,  though  scarcely  capable, 
I  should  imagine,  of  a  passionate  experi 
ence  in  either  direction.  There  was  not 
an  English  trait  in  him  from  head  to  foot, 
morally,  intellectually,  or  physically.  Beef, 


464  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ale,  or  stout,  brandy  or  port-wine,  entered 
not  at  all  into  his  composition.  In  his 
earlier  life,  he  appears  to  have  given  evi 
dences  of  courage  and  sturdy  principle,  and 
of  a  tendency  to  fling  himself  into  the 
rough  struggle  of  humanity  on  the  liberal 
side.  It  would  be  taking  too  much  upon 
myself  to  affirm  that  this  was  merely  a 
projection  of  his  fancy  world  into  the  ac 
tual,  and  that  he  never  could  have  hit  a 
downright  blow,  and  was  altogether  an  un 
suitable  person  to  receive  one.  I  beheld 
him  not  in  his  armor,  but  in  his  peacefulest 
robes.  Nevertheless,  drawing  my  conclu 
sion  merely  from  what  I  saw,  it  would  have 
occurred  to  me  that  his  main  deficiency 
was  a  lack  of  grit.  Though  anything  but 
a  timid  man,  the  combative  and  defensive 
elements  were  not  prominently  developed 
in  his  character,  and  could  have  been  made 
available  only  when  he  put  an  unnatural 
force  upon  his  instincts.  It  was  on  this 
account,  and  also  because  of  the  fineness 
of  his  nature  generally,  that  the  English 
appreciated  him  no  better,  and  left  this 
sweet  and  delicate  poet  poor,  and  with 
scanty  laurels,  in  his  declining  age. 

It  was  not,  I  think,  from  his  American 
blood  that  Leigh   Hunt  derived  either  his 


UP   THE    THAMES  465 

amiability  or  his  peaceful  inclinations ;  at 
least,  I  do  not  see  how  we  can  reasonably 
claim  the  former  quality  as  a  national  char 
acteristic,  though  the  latter  might  have 
been  fairly  inherited  from  his  ancestors  on 
the  mother's  side,  who  were  Pennsylvania 
Quakers.  But  the  kind  of  excellence  that 
distinguished  him  —  his  fineness,  subtilty, 
and  grace  —  was  that  which  the  richest 
cultivation  has  heretofore  tended  to  de 
velop  in  the  happier  examples  of  American 
genius,  and  which  (though  I  say  it  a  little 
reluctantly)  is  perhaps  what  our  future  in 
tellectual  advancement  may  make  general 
among  us.  His  person,  at  all  events,  was 
thoroughly  American,  and  of  the  best  type, 
as  were  likewise  his  manners ;  for  we  are 
the  best  as  well  as  the  worst  mannered 
people  in  the  world. 

Leigh  Hunt  loved  dearly  to  be  praised. 
That  is  to  say,  he  desired  sympathy  as  a 
flower  seeks  sunshine,  and  perhaps  profited 
by  it  as  much  in  the  richer  depth  of  color 
ing  that  it  imparted  to  his  ideas.  In  re 
sponse  to  all  that  we  ventured  to  express 
about  his  writings  (and,  for  my  part,  I  went 
quite  to  the  extent  of  my  conscience,  which 
was  a  long  way,  and  there  left  the  matter 
to  a  lady  and  a  young  girl,  who  happily 


466  OUR   OLD  HOME 

were  with  me),  his  face  shone,  and  he  man 
ifested  great  delight,  with  a  perfect,  and 
yet  delicate,  frankness,  for  which  I  loved 
him.  He  could  not  tell  us,  he  said,  the 
happiness  that  such  appreciation  gave  him  ; 
it  always  took  him  by  surprise,  he  re 
marked,  for  —  perhaps  because  he  cleaned 
his  own  boots,  and  performed  other  little 
ordinary  offices  for  himself  —  he  never  had 
been  conscious  of  anything  wonderful  in 
his  own  person.  And  then  he  smiled, 
making  himself  and  all  the  poor  little  parlor 
about  him  beautiful  thereby.  It  is  usually 
the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  praise  a 
man  to  his  face ;  but  Leigh  Hunt  received 
the  incense  with  such  gracious  satisfaction 
(feeling  it  to  be  sympathy,  not  vulgar 
praise),  that  the  only  difficulty  was  to  keep 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  within  the 
limit  of  permanent  opinion.  A  storm  had 
suddenly  come  up  while  we  were  talking ; 
the  rain  poured,  the  lightning  flashed,  and 
the  thunder  broke  ;  but  I  hope,  and  have 
great  pleasure  in  believing,  that  it  was  a 
sunny  hour  for  Leigh  Hunt.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  not  to  my  voice  that  he  most  favor 
ably  inclined  his  ear,  but  to  those  of  my 
companions.  Women  are  the  fit  ministers 
at  such  a  shrine. 


UP   THE    THAMES  467 

He  must  have  suffered  keenly  in  his 
lifetime,  and  enjoyed  keenly,  keeping  his 
emotions  so  much  upon  the  surface  as  he 
seemed  to  do,  and  convenient  for  everybody 
to  play  upon.  Being  of  a  cheerful  temper 
ament,  happiness  had  probably  the  upper- 
hand.  His  was  a  light,  mildly  joyous 
nature,  gentle,  graceful,  yet  seldom  attain 
ing  to  that  deepest  grace  which  results 
from  power  ;  for  beauty,  like  woman,  its 
human  representative,  dallies  with  the 
gentle,  but  yields  its  consummate  favor 
only  to  the  strong.  I  imagine  that  Leigh 
Hunt  may  have  been  more  beautiful  when 
I  met  him,  both  in  person  and  character, 
than  in  his  earlier  days.  As  a  young  man, 
I  could  conceive  of  his  being  finical  in 
certain  moods,  but  not  now,  when  the 
gravity  of  age  shed  a  venerable  grace  about 
him.  I  rejoiced  to  hear  him  say  that  he 
was  favored  with  most  confident  and  cheer 
ing  anticipations  in  respect  to  a  future  life ; 
and  there  were  abundant  proofs,  through 
out  our  interview,  of  an  unrepining  spirit, 
resignation,  quiet  relinquishment  of  the 
worldly  benefits  that  were  denied  him, 
thankful  enjoyment  of  whatever  he  had  to 
enjoy,  and  piety,  and  hope  shining  onward 
into  the  dusk,  —  all  of  which  gave  a  rever- 


468  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ential  cast  to  the  feeling  with  which  we 
parted  from  him.  I  wish  that  he  could 
have  had  one  full  draught  of  prosperity 
before  he  died.  As  a  matter  of  artistic 
propriety,  it  would  have  been  delightful  to 
see  him  inhabiting  a  beautiful  house  of  his 
own,  in  an  Italian  climate,  with  all  sorts  of 
elaborate  upholstery  and  minute  elegances 
about  him,  and  a  succession  of  tender  and 
lovely  women  to  praise  his  sweet  poetry 
from  morning  to  night.  I  hardly  know 
whether  it  is  my  fault,  or  the  effect  of  a 
weakness  in  Leigh  Hunt's  character,  that 
I  should  be  sensible  of  a  regret  of  this 
nature,  when,  at  the  same  time,  I  sincerely 
believe  that  he  has  found  an  infinity  of 
better  things  in  the  world  whither  he  has 
gone. 

At  our  leave  -  taking  he  grasped  me 
warmly  by  both  hands,  and  seemed  as  much 
interested  in  our  whole  party  as  if  he  had 
known  us  for  years.  All  this  was  genuine 
feeling,  a  quick,  luxuriant  growth  out  of 
his  heart,  which  was  a  soil  for  flower-seeds 
of  rich  and  rare  varieties,  not  acorns,  but 
a  true  heart,  nevertheless.  Several  years 
afterwards  I  met  him  for  the  last  time  at  a 
London  dinner-party,  looking  sadly  broken 
down  by  infirmities  ;  and  my  final  recollec- 


UP   THE    THAMES  469 

tion  of  the  beautiful  old  man  presents  him 
arm  in  arm  with,  nay,  if  I  mistake  not, 
partly  embraced  and  supported  by,  another 
beloved  and  honored  poet,  whose  minstrel- 
name,  since  he  has  a  week-day  one  for  his 
personal  occasions,  I  will  venture  to  speak. 
It  was  Barry  Cornwall,  whose  kind  intro 
duction  had  first  made  me  known  to  Leigh 
Hunt.1 

1  Barry  Cornwall,  Mr.  Procter,,  called  on  me  a  week 
or  more  ago,  but  I  happened  not  to  be  in  the  office. 
Saturday  last  he  called  again,  and  as  I  had  crossed  to 
Rock  Park  he  followed  me  thither.  A  plain,  middle- 
sized,  English-looking  gentleman,  elderly,  with  short 
white  hair,  and  particularly  quiet  in  his  manners.  He 
talks  in  a  somewhat  low  tone  without  emphasis,  scarcely 
distinct.  .  .  .  His  head  has  a  good  outline,  and  would 
look  well  in  marble.  I  liked  him  very  well.  He  talked 
unaffectedly,  showing  an  author's  regard  to  his  reputa 
tion,  and  was  evidently  pleased  to  hear  of  his  American 
celebrity.  He  said  that  in  his  younger  days  he  was  a  sci 
entific  pugilist,  and  once  took  a  journey  to  have  a  spar 
ring  encounter  with  the  Game-Chicken.  Certainly  no 
one  would  have  looked  for  a  pugilist  in  this  subdued 
old  gentleman.  He  is  now  Commissioner  of  Lunacy, 
and  makes  periodical  circuits  through  the  country,  at 
tending  to  the  business  of  his  office.  He  is  slightly  deaf, 
and  this  may  be  the  cause  of  his  unaccented  utterance, 
—  owing  to  his  not  being  able  to  regulate  his  voice  ex 
actly  by  his  own  ear.  .  .  .  He  is  a  good  man,  and  much 
better  expressed  by  his  real  name,  Procter,  than  by  his 
poetical  one,  Barry  Cornwall.  .  .  .  He  took  my  hand  in 
both  of  his  at  parting.  .  .  .  —  I.  498. 


XL 

OUTSIDE    GLIMPSES    OF     ENGLISH 
POVERTY 

BECOMING  an  inhabitant  of  a  great  Eng 
lish  town,  I  often  turned  aside  from  the 
prosperous  thoroughfares  (where  the  edi 
fices,  the  shops,  and  the  bustling  crowd 
differed  not  so  much  from  scenes  with 
which  I  was  familiar  in  my  own  country), 
and  went  designedly  astray  among  pre 
cincts  that  reminded  me  of  some  of  Dick- 
ens's  grimiest  pages.  There  I  caught 
glimpses  of  a  people  and  a  mode  of  life 
that  were  comparatively  new  to  my  obser 
vation,  a  sort  of  sombre  phantasmagoric 
spectacle,  exceedingly  undelightful  to  be 
hold,  yet  involving  a  singular  interest  and 
even  fascination  in  its  ugliness. 

Dirt,  one  would  fancy,  is  plenty  enough 
all  over  the  world,  being  the  symbolic  ac 
companiment  of  the  foul  incrustation  which 
began  to  settle  over  and  bedim  all  earthly 
things  as  soon  as  Eve  had  bitten  the  apple  ; 
ever  since  which  hapless  epoch,  her  daugh- 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY     471 

ters  have  chiefly  been  engaged  in  a  des 
perate  and  unavailing  struggle  to  get  rid  of 
it.  But  the  dirt  of  a  poverty-stricken  Eng 
lish  street  is  a  monstrosity  unknown  on 
our  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  reigns  supreme 
within  its  own  limits,  and  is  inconceivable 
everywhere  beyond  them.  We  enjoy  the 
great  advantage,  that  the  brightness  and 
dryness  of  our  atmosphere  keep  every 
thing  clean  that  the  sun  shines  upon,  con 
verting  the  larger  portion  of  our  impurities 
into  transitory  dust  which  the  next  wind 
can  sweep  away,  in  contrast  with  the  damp, 
adhesive  grime  that  incorporates  itself  with 
all  surfaces  (unless  continually  and  pain 
fully  cleansed)  in  the  chill  moisture  of  the 
English  air.  Then  the  all-pervading  smoke 
of  the  city,  abundantly  intermingled  with 
the  sable  snow-flakes  of  bituminous  coal, 
hovering  overhead,  descending,  and  alight 
ing  on  pavements  and  rich  architectural 
fronts,  on  the  snowy  muslin  of  the  ladies, 
and  the  gentlemen's  starched  collars  and 
shirt-bosoms,  invests  even  the  better  streets 
in  a  half-mourning  garb.  It  is  beyond  the 
resources  of  Wealth  to  keep  the  smut  away 
from  its  premises  or  its  own  fingers'  ends  ; 
and  as  for  Poverty,  it  surrenders  itself  to 
the  dark  influence  without  a  struggle. 


472 


OUR   OLD   HOME 


Along  with  disastrous  circumstances,  pinch 
ing  need,  adversity  so  lengthened  out  as 
to  constitute  the  rule  of  life,  there  comes 
a  certain  chill  depression  of  the  spirits 
which  seems  especially  to  shudder  at  cold 
water.  In  view  of  so  wretched  a  state  of 
things,  we  accept  the  ancient  Deluge  not 
merely  as  an  insulated  phenomenon,  but 
as  a  periodical  necessity,  and  acknowledge 
that  nothing  less  than  such  a  general  wash 
ing-day  could  suffice  to  cleanse  the  slovenly 
old  world  of  its  moral  and  material  dirt. 

Gin  -  shops,  or  what  the  English  call 
spirit-vaults,  are  numerous  in  the  vicinity 
of  these  poor  streets,  and  are  set  off  with 
the  magnificence  of  gilded  door-posts,  tar 
nished  by  contact  with  the  unclean  cus 
tomers  who  haunt  there.  Ragged  chil 
dren  come  thither  with  old  shaving-mugs, 
or  broken-nosed  teapots,  or  any  such  make 
shift  receptacle,  to  get  a  little  poison  or 
madness  for  their  parents,  who  deserve  no 
better  requital  at  their  hands  for  having 
engendered  them.  Inconceivably  sluttish 
women  enter  at  noonday  and  stand  at  the 
counter  among  boon  -  companions  of  both 
sexes,  stirring  up  misery  and  jollity  in  a 
bumper  together,  and  quaffing  off  the  mix 
ture  with  a  relish.  As  for  the  men,  they 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    4/3 

lounge  there  continually,  drinking  till  they 
are  drunken,  —  drinking  as  long  as  they 
have  a  halfpenny  left,  —  and  then,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  waiting  for  a  sixpenny  mir 
acle  to  be  wrought  in  their  pockets  so  as 
to  enable  them  to  be  drunken  again.  Most 
of  these  establishments  have  a  significant 
advertisement  of  "  Beds,"  doubtless  for 
the  accommodation  of  their  customers  in 
the  interval  between  one  intoxication  and 
the  next.  I  never  could  find  it  in  my 
heart,  however,  utterly  to  condemn  these 
sad  revelers,  and  should  certainly  wait  till 
I  had  some  better  consolation  to  offer 
before  depriving  them  of  their  dram  of 
gin,  though  death  itself  were  in  the  glass  ; 
for  methought  their  poor  souls  needed 
such  fiery  stimulant  to  lift  them  a  little 
way  out  of  the  smothering  squalor  of  both 
their  outward  and  interior  life,  giving  them 
glimpses  and  suggestions,  even  if  bewil 
dering  ones,  of  a  spiritual  existence  that 
limited  their  present  misery.  The  temper 
ance-reformers  unquestionably  derive  their 
commission  from  the  Divine  Beneficence, 
but  have  never  been  taken  fully  into  its 
counsels.  All  may  not  be  lost,  though 
those  good  men  fail. 

Pawnbrokers'    establishments  —  distin- 


474  OUR  OLD  HOME 

guished  by  the  mystic  symbol  of  the  three 
golden  balls,  —  were  conveniently  accessi 
ble  ;  though  what  personal  property  these 
wretched  people  could  possess,  capable  of 
being  estimated  in  silver  or  copper,  so  as 
to  afford  a  basis  for  a  loan,  was  a  problem 
that  still  perplexes  me.  Old  clothesmen, 
likewise,  dwelt  hard  by,  and  hung  out  an 
cient  garments  to  dangle  in  the  wind. 
There  were  butchers'  shops,  too,  of  a  class 
adapted  to  the  neighborhood,  presenting 
no  such  generously  fattened  carcasses  as 
Englishmen  love  to  gaze  at  in  the  market, 
no  stupendous  halves  of  mighty  beeves,  no 
dead  hogs,  or  muttons  ornamented  with 
carved  bas-reliefs  of  fat  on  their  ribs  and 
shoulders,  in  a  peculiarly  British  style  of 
art, — not  these,  but  bits  and  gobbets  of 
lean  meat,  selvages  snipt  off  from  steaks, 
tough  and  stringy  rnorsels,  bare  bones 
smitten  away  from  joints  by  the  cleaver  ; 
tripe,  liver,  bullocks'  feet,  or  whatever  else 
was  cheapest  and  divisible  into  the  small 
est  lots.  I  am  afraid  that  even  such  deli 
cacies  came  to  many  of  their  tables  hardly 
oftener  than  Christmas.  In  the  windows 
of  other  little  shops  you  saw  half  a  dozen 
wizened  herrings  ;  some  eggs  in  a  basket, 
looking  so  dingily  antique  that  your  imagi- 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    475 

nation  smelt  them ;  fly-speckled  biscuits, 
segments  of  a  hungry  cheese,  pipes  and 
papers  of  tobacco.  Now  and  then  a  sturdy 
milk-woman  passed  by  with  a  wooden  yoke 
over  her  shoulders,  supporting  a  pail  on 
either  side,  filled  with  a  whitish  fluid,  the 
composition  of  which  was  water  and  chalk 
and  the  milk  of  a  sickly  cow,  who  gave 
the  best  she  had,  poor  thing  !  but  could 
scarcely  make  it  rich  or  wholesome,  spend 
ing  her  life  in  some  close  city-nook  and 
pasturing  on  strange  food.  I  have  seen, 
once  or  twice,  a  donkey  coming  into  one 
of  these  streets  with  panniers  full  of  vege 
tables,  and  departing  with  a  return  cargo  of 
what  looked  like  rubbish  and  street-sweep 
ings.  No  other  commerce  seemed  to  exist, 
except,  possibly,  a  girl  might  offer  you  a 
pair  of  stockings  or  a  worked  collar,  or  a 
man  whisper  something  mysterious  about 
wonderfully  cheap  cigars.  And  yet  I  re 
member  seeing  female  hucksters  in  those 
regions,  with  their  wares  on  the  edge  of 
the  sidewalk  arid  their  own  seats  right  in 
the  carriage-way,  pretending  to  sell  half- 
decayed  oranges  and  apples,  toffy,  Orms- 
kirk  cakes,  combs,  and  cheap  jewelry,  the 
coarsest  kind  of  crockery,  and  little  plates 
of  oysters,  — knitting  patiently  all  day  long, 


476  OUR   OLD  HOME 

and  removing  their  undiminished  stock  in 
trade  at  nightfall.  All  indispensable  im 
portations  from  other  quarters  of  the  town 
were  on  a  remarkably  diminutive  scale :  for 
example,  the  wealthier  inhabitants  pur 
chased  their  coal  by  the  wheelbarrow-load, 
and  the  poorer  ones  by  the  peck-measure. 
It  was  a  curious  and  melancholy  spectacle, 
when  an  overladen  coal-cart  happened  to 
pass  through  the  street  and  drop  a  handful 
or  two  of  its  burden  in  the  mud,  to  see  half 
a  dozen  women  and  children  scrambling 
for  the  treasure-trove,  like  a  flock  of  hens 
and  chickens  gobbling  up  some  spilt  corn. 
In  this  connection  I  may  as  well  mention 
a  commodity  of  boiled  snails  (for  such  they 
appeared  to  me,  though  probably  a  marine 
production)  which  used  to  be  peddled  from 
door  to  door,  piping  hot,  as  an  article  of 
cheap  nutriment. 

The  population  of  these  dismal  abodes 
appeared  to  consider  the  sidewalks  and 
middle  of  the  street  as  their  common  hall. 
In  a  drama  of  low  life,  the  unity  of  place 
might  be  arranged  rigidly  according  to  the 
classic  rule,  and  the  street  be  the  one 
locality  in  which  every  scene  and  incident 
should  occur.  Courtship,  quarrels,  plot 
and  counterplot,  conspiracies  for  robbery 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    4/7 

and  murder,  family  difficulties  or  agree 
ments,  —  all  such  matters,  I  doubt  not,  are 
constantly  discussed  or  transacted  in  this 
sky-roofed  saloon,  so  regally  hung  with  its 
sombre  canopy  of  coal-smoke.  Whatever 
the  disadvantages  of  the  English  climate, 
the  only  comfortable  or  wholesome  part  of 
life,  for  the  city  poor,  must  be  spent  in  the 
open  air.  The  stifled  and  squalid  rooms 
where  they  lie  down  at  night,  whole  fam 
ilies  and  neighborhoods  together,  or  sulkily 
elbow  one  another  in  the  daytime,  when  a 
settled  rain  drives  them  within  doors,  are 
worse  horrors  than  it  is  worth  while  (with 
out  a  practical  object  in  view)  to  admit  into 
one's  imagination.  No  wonder  that  they 
creep  forth  from  the  foul  mystery  of  their 
interiors,  stumble  down  from  their  garrets, 
or  scramble  up  out  of  their  cellars,  on  the 
upper  step  of  which  you  may  see  the  grimy 
housewife,  before  the  shower  is  ended, 
letting  the  raindrops  gutter  down  her  vis 
age  ;  while  her  children  (an  impish  progeny 
of  cavernous  recesses  below  the  common 
sphere  of  humanity)  swarm  into  the  day 
light  and  attain  all  that  they  know  of  per 
sonal  purification  in  the  nearest  mud- 
puddle.  It  might  almost  make  a  man 
doubt  the  existence  of  his  own  soul,  to 


478  OUR   OLD  HOME 

observe  how  Nature  has  flung  these  little 
wretches  into  the  street  and  left  them 
there,  so  evidently  regarding  them  as 
nothing  worth,  and  how  all  mankind  acqui 
esce  in  the  great  mother's  estimate  of  her 
offspring.  For,  if  they  are  to  have  no 
immortality,  what  superior  claim  can  I 
assert  for  mine  ?  And  how  difficult  to  be 
lieve  that  anything  so  precious  as  a  germ 
of  immortal  growth  can  have  been  buried 
under  this  dirt  -  heap,  plunged  into  this 
cesspool  of  misery  and  vice  !  As  often  as 
I  beheld  the  scene,  it  affected  me  with 
surprise  and  loathsome  interest,  much  re 
sembling,  though  in  a  far  intenser  degree, 
the  feeling  with  which,  when  a  boy,  I  used 
to  turn  over  a  plank  or  an  old  log  that  had 
long  lain  on  the  damp  ground,  and  found  a 
vivacious  multitude  of  unclean  and  devilish- 
looking  insects  scampering  to  and  fro  be 
neath  it.  Without  an  infinite  faith,  there 
seemed  as  much  prospect  of  a  blessed 
futurity  for  those  hideous  bugs  and  many- 
footed  worms  as  for  these  brethren  of  our 
humanity  and  co-heirs  of  all  our  heavenly 
inheritance.  Ah,  what  a  mystery  !  Slowly, 
slowly,  as  after  groping  at  the  bottom  of  a 
deep,  noisome,  stagnant  pool,  my  hope 
struggles  upward  to  the  surface,  bearing 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    479 

the  half -drowned  body  of  a  child  along 
with  it,  and  heaving  it  aloft  for  its  life,  and 
my  own  life,  and  all  our  lives.  Unless 
these  slime  -  clogged  nostrils  can  be  made 
capable  of  inhaling  celestial  air,  I  know 
not  how  the  purest  and  most  intellectual 
of  us  can  reasonably  expect  ever  to  taste  a 
breath  of  it.  The  whole  question  of  eter 
nity  is  staked  there.  If  a  single  one  of 
those  helpless  little  ones  be  lost,  the  world 
is  lost  ! 

The  women  and  children  greatly  prepon 
derate  in  such  places  ;  the  men  probably 
wandering  abroad  in  quest  of  that  daily 
miracle,  a  dinner  and  a  drink,  or  perhaps 
slumbering  in  the  daylight  that  they  may 
the  better  follow  out  their  cat  -  like  ram 
bles  through  the  dark.  Here  are  women 
with  young  figures,  but  old,  wrinkled,  yel 
low  faces,  tanned  and  blear-eyed  with  the 
smoke  which  they  cannot  spare  from  their 
scanty  fires,  —  it  being  too  precious  for  its 
warmth  to  be  swallowed  by  the  chimney. 
Some  of  them  sit  on  the  doorsteps,  nursing 
their  unwashed  babies  at  bosoms  which  we 
will  glance  aside  from,  for  the  sake  of  our 
mothers  and  all  womanhood,  because  the 
fairest  spectacle  is  here  the  foulest.  Yet 
motherhood,  in  these  dark  abodes,  is 


480  OUR  OLD  HOME 

strangely  identical  with  what  we  have 
all  known  it  to  be  in  the  happiest  homes. 
Nothing,  as  I  remember,  smote  me  with 
more  grief  and  pity  (all  the  more  poignant 
because  perplexingly  entangled  with  an 
inclination  to  smile)  than  to  hear  a  gaunt 
and  ragged  mother  priding  herself  on  the 
pretty  ways  of  her  ragged  and  skinny  in 
fant,  just  as  a  young  matron  might,  when 
she  invites  her  lady  friends  to  admire  her 
plump,  white-robed  darling  in  the  nursery. 
Indeed,  no  womanly  characteristic  seemed 
to  have  altogether  perished  out  of  these 
poor  souls.  It  was  the  very  same  creature 
whose  tender  torments  make  the  rapture 
of  our  young  days,  whom  we  love,  cherish, 
and  protect,  and  rely  upon  in  life  and 
death,  and  whom  we  delight  to  see  beautify 
her  beauty  with  rich  robes  and  set  it  off 
with  jewels,  though  now  fantastically  mas 
querading  in  a  garb  of  tatters,  wholly  unfit 
for  her  to  handle.  I  recognized  her,  over 
and  over  again,  in  the  groups  round  a  door 
step  or  in  the  descent  of  a  cellar,  chatting 
with  prodigious  earnestness  about  intangi 
ble  trifles,  laughing  for  a  little  jest,  sym 
pathizing  at  almost  the  same  instant  with 
one  neighbor's  sunshine  and  another's 
shadow ;  wise,  simple,  sly,  and  patient,  yet 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    481 

easily  perturbed,  and  breaking  into  small 
feminine  ebullitions  of  spite,  wrath,  and 
jealousy,  tornadoes  of  a  moment,  such  as 
vary  the  social  atmosphere  of  her  silken- 
skirted  sisters,  though  smothered  into  pro 
priety  by  dint  of  a  well-bred  habit.  Not 
that  there  was  an  absolute  deficiency  of 
good-breeding,  even  here.  It  often  sur 
prised  me  to  witness  a  courtesy  and  def 
erence  among  these  ragged  folks,  which, 
having  seen  it,  I  did  not  thoroughly  believe 
in,  wondering  whence  it  should  have  come. 
I  am  persuaded,  however,  that  there  were 
laws  of  intercourse  which  they  never  vio 
lated, —  a  code  of  the  cellar,  the  garret,  the 
common  staircase,  the  doorstep,  and  the 
pavement,  which,  perhaps,  had  as  deep  a 
foundation  in  natural  fitness  as  the  code  of 
the  drawing-room. 

Yet  again  I  doubt  whether  I  may  not 
have  been  uttering  folly  in  the  last  two 
sentences,  when  I  reflect  how  rude  and 
rough  these  specimens  of  feminine  char 
acter  generally  were.  They  had  a  readi 
ness  with  their  hands  that  reminded  me  of 
Molly  Seagrim  and  other  heroines  in  Field 
ing's  novels.  For  example,  I  have  seen 
a  woman  meet  a  man  in  the  street,  and, 
for  no  reason  perceptible  to  me,  suddenly 


482  OUR   OLD  HOME 

clutch  him  by  the  hair  and  cuff  his  ears,  — 
an  infliction  which  he  bore  with  exemplary 
patience,  only  snatching  the  very  earliest 
opportunity  to  take  to  his  heels.  Where  a 
sharp  tongue  will  not  serve  the  purpose, 
they  trust  to  the  sharpness  of  their  finger 
nails,  or  incarnate  a  whole  vocabulary  of 
vituperative  words  in  a  resounding  slap,  or 
the  downright  blow  of  a  doubled  fist.  All 
English  people,  I  imagine,  are  influenced 
in  a  far  greater  degree  than  ourselves  by 
this  simple  and  honest  tendency,  in  cases 
of  disagreement,  to  batter  one  another's 
persons  ;  and  whoever  has  seen  a  crowd  of 
English  ladies  (for  instance,  at  the  door  of 
the  Sistine  Chapel,  in  Holy  Week)  will  be 
satisfied  that  their  belligerent  propensities 
are  kept  in  abeyance  only  by  a  merciless 
rigor  on  the  part  of  society.  It  requires  a 
vast  deal  of  refinement  to  spiritualize  their 
large  physical  endowments.  Such  being 
the  case  with  the  delicate  ornaments  of 
the  drawing-room,  it  is  less  to  be  wondered 
at  that  women  who  live  mostly  in  the  open 
air,  amid  the  coarsest  kind  of  companion 
ship  and  occupation,  should  carry  on  the 
intercourse  of  life  with  a  freedom  unknown 
to  any  class  of  American  females,  though 
still,  I  am  resolved  to  think,  compatible 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    483 

with  a  generous  breadth  of  natural  propri 
ety.  It  shocked  me,  at  first,  to  see  them 
(of  all  ages,  even  elderly,  as  well  as  infants 
that  could  just  toddle  across  the  street 
alone)  going  about  in  the  mud  and  mire,  or 
through  the  dusky  snow  and  slosh  of  a 
severe  week  in  winter,  with  petticoats  high 
uplifted  above  bare,  red  feet  and  legs  ;  but 
I  was  comforted  by  observing  that  both 
shoes  and  stockings  generally  reappeared 
with  better  weather,  having  been  thriftily 
kept  out  of  the  damp  for  the  convenience 
of  dry  feet  within  doors.  Their  hardihood 
was  wonderful,  and  their  strength  greater 
than  could  have  been  expected  from  such 
spare  diet  as  they  probably  lived  upon.  I 
have  seen  them  carrying  on  their  heads 
great  burdens  under  which  they  walked  as 
freely  as  if  they  were  fashionable  bonnets  ; 
or  sometimes  the  burden  was  huge  enough 
almost  to  cover  the  whole  person,  looked 
at  from  behind, — as  in  Tuscan  villages  you 
may  see  the  girls  coming  in  from  the  coun 
try  with  great  bundles  of  green  twigs  upon 
their  backs,  so  that  they  resemble  locomo 
tive  masses  of  verdure  and  fragrance.  But 
these  poor  English  women  seemed  to  be 
laden  with  rubbish,  incongruous  and  inde 
scribable,  such  as  bones  and  rags,  the 


484  OUR   OLD  HOME 

sweepings  of  the  house  and  of  the  street, 
a  merchandise  gathered  up  from  what  pov 
erty  itself  had  thrown  away,  a  heap  of 
filthy  stuff  analogous  to  Christian's  bundle 
of  sin. 

Sometimes,  though  very  seldom,  I  de 
tected  a  certain  gracefulness  among  the 
younger  women  that  was  altogether  new 
to  my  observation.  It  was  a  charm  proper 
to  the  lowest  class.  One  girl  I  particularly 
remember,  in  a  garb  none  of  the  cleanest 
and  nowise  smart,  and  herself  exceedingly 
coarse  in  all  respects,  but  yet  endowed 
with  a  sort  of  witchery,  a  native  charm,  a 
robe  of  simple  beauty  and  suitable  behavior 
that  she  was  born  in  and  had  never  been 
tempted  to  throw  off,  because  she  had 
really  nothing  else  to  put  on.  Eve  herself 
could  not  have  been  more  natural.  Noth 
ing  was  affected,  nothing  imitated ;  no 
proper  grace  was  vulgarized  by  an  effort 
to  assume  the  manners  or  adornments  of 
another  sphere.  This  kind  of  beauty,  ar 
rayed  in  a  fitness  of  its  own,  is  probably 
vanishing  out  of  the  world,  and  will  cer 
tainly  never  be  found  in  America,  where  all 
the  girls,  whether  daughters  of  the  upper- 
tendom,  the  mediocrity,  the  cottage,  or  the 
kennel,  aim  at  one  standard  of  dress  and 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    485 

deportment,  seldom  accomplishing  a  per 
fectly  triumphant  hit  or  an  utterly  absurd 
failure.  Those  words,  " genteel"  and  "lady 
like,  "  are  terrible  ones,  and  do  us  infinite 
mischief,  but  it  is  because  (at  least,  I  hope 
so)  we  are  in  a  transition  state,  and  shall 
emerge  into  a  higher  mode  of  simplicity 
than  has  ever  been  known  to  past  ages. 

In  such  disastrous  circumstances  as  I 
have  been  attempting  to  describe,  it  was 
beautiful  to  observe  what  a  mysterious  ef 
ficacy  still  asserted  itself  in  character.  A 
woman,  evidently  poor  as  the  poorest  of 
her  neighbors,  would  be  knitting  or  sewing 
on  the  doorstep,  just  as  fifty  other  women 
were ;  but  round  about  her  skirts  (though 
wofully  patched)  you  would  be  sensible  of 
a  certain  sphere  of  decency,  which,  it 
seemed  to  me,  could  not  have  been  kept 
more  impregnable  in  the  cosiest  little  sit 
ting-room,  where  the  teakettle  on  the  hob 
was  humming  its  good  old  song  of  domestic 
peace.  Maidenhood  had  a  similar  power. 
The  evil  habit  that  grows  upon  us  in  this 
harsh  world  makes  me  faithless  to  my  own 
better  perceptions ;  and  yet  I  have  seen 
girls  in  these  wretched  streets,  on  whose 
virgin  purity,  judging  merely  from  their 
impression  on  my  instincts  as  they  passed 


486  OUR   OLD  HOME 

by,  I  should  have  deemed  it  safe,  at  the 
moment,  to  stake  my  life.  The  next  mo 
ment,  however,  as  the  surrounding  flood  of 
moral  uncleanness  surged  over  their  foot 
steps,  I  would  not  have  staked  a  spike  of 
thistle-down  on  the  same  wager.  Yet  the 
miracle  was  within  the  scope  of  Providence, 
which  is  equally  wise  and  equally  benefi 
cent  (even  to  those  poor  girls,  though  I 
acknowledge  the  fact  without  the  remotest 
comprehension  of  the  mode  of  it),  whether 
they  were  pure  or  what  we  fellow-sinners 
call  vile.  Unless  your  faith  be  deep-rooted 
and  of  most  vigorous  growth,  it  is  the 
safer  way  not  to  turn  aside  into  this  region 
so  suggestive  of  miserable  doubt.  It  was 
a  place  "  with  dreadful  faces  thronged," 
wrinkled  and  grim  with  vice  and  wretched 
ness  ;  and,  thinking  over  the  line  of  Mil 
ton  here  quoted,  I  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  those  ugly  lineaments  which  startled 
Adam  and  Eve,  as  they  looked  backward  to 
the  closed  gate  of  Paradise,  were  no  fiends 
from  the  pit,  but  the  more  terrible  fore- 
shadowings  of  what  so  many  of  their  de 
scendants  were  to  be.  God  help  them,  and 
us  likewise,  their  brethren  and  sisters ! 
Let  me  add,  that,  forlorn,  ragged,  careworn, 
hopeless,  dirty,  haggard,  hungry,  as  they 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    487 

were,  the  most  pitiful  thing  of  all  was  to 
see  the  sort  of  patience  with  which  they 
accepted  their  lot,  as  if  they  had  been  born 
into  the  world  for  that  and  nothing  else. 
Even  the  little  children  had  this  character 
istic  in  as  perfect  development  as  their 
grandmothers. 

The  children,  in  truth,  were  the  ill- 
omened  blossoms  from  which  another  har 
vest  of  precisely  such  dark  fruitage  as  I 
saw  ripened  around  me  was  to  be  produced. 
Of  course  you  would  imagine  these  to  be 
lumps  of  crude  iniquity,  tiny  vessels  as  full 
as  they  could  hold  of  naughtiness  ;  nor  can 
I  say  a  great  deal  to  the  contrary.  Small 
proof  of  parental  discipline  could  I  discern, 
save  when  a  mother  (drunken,  I  sincerely 
hope)  snatched  her  own  imp  out  of  a  group 
of  pale,  half-naked,  humor-eaten  abortions 
that  were  playing  and  squabbling  together 
in  the  mud,  turned  up  its  tatters,  brought 
down  her  heavy  hand  on  its  poor  little 
tenderest  part,  and  let  it  go  again  with  a 
shake.  If  the  child  knew  what  the  punish 
ment  Was  for,  it  was  wiser  than  I  pretend 
to  be.  It  yelled  and  went  back  to  its  play 
mates  in  the  mud.  Yet  let  me  bear  tes 
timony  to  what  was  beautiful,  and  more 
touching  than  anything  that  I  ever  wit- 


488  OUR   OLD  HOME 

nessed  before  in  the  intercourse  of  happier 
children.  I  allude  to  the  superintendence 
which  some  of  these  small  people  (too  small, 
one  would  think,  to  be  sent  into  the  street 
alone,  had  there  been  any  other  nursery 
for  them)  exercised  over  still  smaller  ones. 
Whence  they  derived  such  a  sense  of  duty, 
unless  immediately  from  God,  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  it  was  wonderful  to  observe  the 
expression  of  responsibility  in  their  deport 
ment,  the  anxious  fidelity  with  which  they 
discharged  their  unfit  office,  the  tender  pa 
tience  with  which  they  linked  their  less 
pliable  impulses  to  the  wayward  footsteps 
of  an  infant,  and  let  it  guide  them  whith 
ersoever  it  liked.  In  the  hollow-cheeked, 
large-eyed  girl  of  ten,  whom  I  saw  giving 
a  cheerless  oversight  to  her  baby-brother, 
I  did  not  so  much  marvel  at  it.  She  had 
merely  come  a  little  earlier  than  usual  to 
the  perception  of  what  was  to  be  her  busi 
ness  in  life.  But  I  admired  the  sickly- 
looking  little  boy,  who  did  violence  to  his 
boyish  nature  by  making  himself  the  ser 
vant  of  his  little  sister,  —  she  too  small  to 
walk,  and  he  too  small  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  • —  and  therefore  working  a  kind  of 
miracle  to  transport  her  from  one  dirt-heap 
to  another.  Beholding  such  works  of  love 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    489 

and  duty,  I  took  heart  again,  and  deemed 
it  not  so  impossible,  after  all,  for  these 
neglected  children  to  find  a  path  through 
the  squalor  and  evil  of  their  circumstances 
up  to  the  gate  of  heaven.  Perhaps  there 
was  this  latent  good  in  all  of  them,  though 
generally  they  looked  brutish,  and  dull  even 
in  their  sports ;  there  was  little  mirth 
among  them,  nor  even  a  fully  awakened 
spirit  of  blackguardism.  Yet  sometimes, 
again,  I  saw,  with  surprise  and  a  sense  as 
if  I  had  been  asleep  and  dreaming,  the 
bright,  intelligent,  merry  face  of  a  child 
whose  dark  eyes  gleamed  with  vivacious 
expression  through  the  dirt  that  incrusted 
its  skin,  like  sunshine  struggling  through 
a  very  dusty  window-pane. 

In  these  streets  the  belted  and  blue- 
coated  policeman  appears  seldom  in  com 
parison  with  the  frequency  of  his  occur 
rence  in  more  reputable  thoroughfares.  I 
used  to  think  that  the  inhabitants  would 
have  ample  time  to  murder  one  another,  or 
any  stranger,  like  myself,  who  might  vio 
late  the  filthy  sanctities  of  the  place,  be 
fore  the  law  could  bring  up  its  lumbering 
assistance.  Nevertheless,  there  is  a  super 
vision  ;  nor  does  the  watchfulness  of  author 
ity  permit  the  populace  to  be  tempted  to 


4QO  OUR   OLD  HOME 

any  outbreak.  Once,  in  a  time  of  dearth, 
I  noticed  a  ballad-singer  going  through  the 
street  hoarsely  chanting  some  discordant 
strain  in  a  provincial  dialect,  of  which  I 
could  only  make  out  that  it  addressed  the 
sensibilities  of  the  auditors  on  the  score 
of  starvation  ;  but  by  his  side  stalked  the 
policeman,  offering  no  interference,  but 
watchful  to  hear  what  this  rough  minstrel 
said  or  sang,  and  silence  him,  if  his  effusion 
threatened  to  prove  too  soul-stirring.  In 
my  judgment,  however,  there  is  little  or  no 
danger  of  that  kind  :  they  starve  patiently, 
sicken  patiently,  die  patiently,  not  through 
resignation,  but  a  diseased  flaccidity  of 
hope.  If  ever  they  should  do  mischief  to 
those  above  them,  it  will  probably  be  by 
the  communication  of  some  destructive 
pestilence  ;  for,  so  the  medical  men  affirm, 
they  suffer  all  the  ordinary  diseases  with 
a  degree  of  virulence  elsewhere  unknown, 
and  keep  among  themselves  traditionary 
plagues  that  have  long  ceased  to  afflict 
more  fortunate  societies.  Chanty  herself 
gathers  her  robe  about  her  to  avoid  their 
contact.  It  would  be  a  dire  revenge,  in 
deed,  if  they  were  to  prove  their  claims  to 
be  reckoned  of  one  blood  and  nature  with 
the  noblest  and  wealthiest,  by  compelling 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    491 

them  to  inhale  death  through  the  diffusion 
of  their  own  poverty-poisoned  atmosphere. 
A  true  Englishman  is  a  kind  man  at 
heart,  but  has  an  unconquerable  dislike  to 
poverty  and  beggary.  Beggars  have  here 
tofore  been  so  strange  to  an  American  that 
he  is  apt  to  become  their  prey,  being  recog 
nized  through  his  national  peculiarities, 
and  beset  by  them  in  the  streets.  The 
English  smile  at  him,  and  say  that  there 
are  ample  public  arrangements  for  every 
pauper's  possible  need,  that  street  charity 
promotes  idleness  and  vice,  and  that  yon 
der  personification  of  misery  on  the  pave 
ment  will  lay  up  a  good  day's  profit,  be 
sides  supping  more  luxuriously  than  the 
dupe  who  gives  him  a  shilling.  By  and  by 
the  stranger  adopts  their  theory  and  be 
gins  to  practice  upon  it,  much  to  his  own 
temporary  freedom  from  annoyance,  but 
not  entirely  without  moral  detriment  or 
sometimes  a  too  late  contrition.  Years 
afterwards,  it  may  be,  his  memory  is  still 
haunted  by  some  vindictive  wretch  whose 
cheeks  were  pale  and  hunger -pinched, 
whose  rags  fluttered  in  the  east -wind, 
whose  right  arm  was  paralyzed  and  his  left 
leg  shriveled  into  a  mere  nerveless  stick, 
but  whom  he  passed  by  remorselessly  be- 


492  OUR   OLD  HOME 

cause  an  Englishman  chose  to  say  that  the 
fellow's  misery  looked  too  perfect,  was  too 
artistically  got  up,  to  be  genuine.  Even 
allowing  this  to  be  true  (as,  a  hundred 
chances  to  one,  it  was),  it  would  still  have 
been  a  clear  case  of  economy  to  buy  him 
off  with  a  little  loose  silver,  so  that  his 
lamentable  figure  should  not  limp  at  the 
heels  of  your  conscience  all  over  the  world.1 
To  own  the  truth,  I  provided  myself  with 
several  such  imaginary  persecutors  in  Eng 
land,  and  recruited  their  number  with  at 
least  one  sickly-looking  wretch  whose  ac 
quaintance  I  first  made  at  Assisi,  in  Italy, 
and,  taking  a  dislike  to  something  sinister 
in  his  aspect,  permitted  him  to  beg  early 
and  late,  and  all  day  long,  without  getting 
a  single  baiocco.  At  my  latest  glimpse  of 
him,  the  villain  avenged  himself,  not  by  a 
volley  of  horrible  curses  as  any  other  Ital 
ian  beggar  would,  but  by  taking  an  expres 
sion  so  grief -stricken,  want -wrung,  hope 
less,  and  withal  resigned,  that  I  could  paint 
his  lifelike  portrait  at  this  moment.  Were 
I  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again,  I  would 

1  The  natural  man  cries  out  against  the  philosophy 
that  rejects  beggars.  It  is  a  thousand  to  one  that  they 
are  impostors,  but  yet  we  do  ourselves  a  wrong  by  hard 
ening  our  hearts  against  them.  —  II.  152. 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    493 

listen  to  no  man's  theories,  but  buy  the  lit 
tle  luxury  of  beneficence  at  a  cheap  rate, 
instead  of  doing  myself  a  moral  mischief 
by  exuding  a  stony  incrustation  over  what 
ever  natural  sensibility  I  might  possess. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  were  some 
mendicants  whose  utmost  efforts  I  even 
now  felicitate  myself  on  having  withstood. 
Such  was  a  phenomenon  abridged  of  his 
lower  half,  who  beset  me  for  two  or  three 
years  together,  and,  in  spite  of  his  defi 
ciency  of  locomotive  members,  had  some 
supernatural  method  of  transporting  him 
self  (simultaneously,  I  believe)  to  all  quar 
ters  of  the  city.  He  wore  a  sailor's  jacket 
(possibly,  because  skirts  would  have  been 
a  superfluity  to  his  figure),  and  had  a  re 
markably  broad-shouldered  and  muscular 
frame,  surmounted  by  a  large,  fresh-colored 
face,  which  was  full,  of  power  and  intelli 
gence.  His  dress  arid  linen  were  the  per 
fection  of  neatness.  Once  a  day,  at  least, 
wherever  I  went,  I  suddenly  became  aware 
of  this  trunk  of  a  man  on  the  path  before 
me,  resting  on  his  base,  and  looking  as  if 
he  had  just  sprouted  out  of  the  pavement, 
and  would  sink  into  it  again  and  reappear 
at  some  other  spot  the  instant  you  left  him 
behind.  The  expression  of  his  eye  was 


494 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


perfectly  respectful,  but  terribly  fixed, 
holding  your  own  as  by  fascination,  never 
once  winking,  never  wavering  from  its 
point-blank  gaze  right  into  your  face,  till 
you  were  completely  beyond  the  range  of 
his  battery  of  one  immense  rifled  cannon. 
This  was  his  mode  of  soliciting  alms ;  and 
he  reminded  me  of  the  old  beggar  who  ap 
pealed  so  touchingly  to  the  charitable  sym 
pathies  of  Gil  Bias,  taking  aim  at  him 
from  the  roadside  with  a  long  -  barreled 
musket.  The  intentness  and  directness  of 
his  silent  appeal,  his  close  and  unrelenting 
attack  upon  your  individuality,  respectful 
as  it  seemed,  was  the  very  flower  of  inso 
lence  ;  or,  if  you  give  it  a  possibly  truer 
interpretation,  it  was  the  tyrannical  effort 
of  a  man  endowed  with  great  natural  force 
of  character  to  constrain  your  reluctant 
will  to  his  purpose.  Apparently,  he  had 
staked  his  salvation  upon  the  ultimate  suc 
cess  of  a  daily  struggle  between  himself 
and  me,  the  triumph  of  which  would  com 
pel  me  to  become  a  tributary  to  the  hat 
that  lay  on  the  pavement  beside  him.  Man 
or. fiend,  however,  there  was  a  stubbornness 
in  his  intended  victim  which  this  massive 
fragment  of  a  mighty  personality  had  not 
altogether  reckoned  upon,  and  by  its  aid  I 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    495 

was  enabled  to  pass  him  at  my  customary 
pace  hundreds  of  times  over,  quietly  meet 
ing  his  terribly  respectful  eye,  and  allowing 
him  the  fair  chance  which  I  felt  to  be  his 
due,  to  subjugate  me,  if  he  really  had  the 
strength  for  it.  He  never  succeeded,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  never  gave  up  the  con 
test  ;  and  should  I  ever  walk  those  streets 
again,  I  am  certain  that  the  truncated  ty 
rant  will  sprout  up  through  the  pavement 
and  look  me  fixedly  in  the  eye,  and  perhaps 
get  the  victory.1 

I  should  think  all    the    more    highly  of 
myself,  if  I  had  shown  equal  heroism    in 

1  Among  the  beggars  of  Liverpool,  the  hardest  to  en 
counter  is  a  man  without  any  legs,  and  if  I  mistake  not, 
likewise  deficient  in  arms.  You  see  him  before  you  all 
at  once,  as  if  he  had  sprouted  half-way  out  of  the  earth, 
and  would  sink  down  and  reappear  in  some  other  place 
the  moment  he  has  done  with  you.  His  countenance  is 
large,  fresh,  and  very  intelligent ;  but  his  great  power 
lies  in  his  fixed  gaze,  which  is  inconceivably  difficult  to 
bear.  He  never  once  removes  his  eye  from  you  till  you 
are  quite  past  his  range  ;  and  you  feel  it  all  the  same, 
although  you  do  not  meet  his  glance.  He  is  perfectly 
respectful ;  but  the  intentness  and  directness  of  his  silent 
appeal  is  far  worse  than  any  impudence.  In  fact,  it  is 
the  very  flower  of  impudence.  I  would  rather  go  a  mile 
about  than  pass  before  his  battery.  I  feel  wronged  by 
him,  and  yet  unutterably  ashamed.  There  must  be  great 
force  in  the  man  to  produce  such  an  effect.  There  is 
nothing  of  the  customary  squalidness  of  beggary  about 
him,  but  remarkable  trimness  and  cleanliness.  —  I.  475. 


496  OUR   OLD  HOME 

resisting  another  class  of  beggarly  depre 
dators,  who  assailed  me  on  my  weaker  side 
and  won  an  easy  spoil.  Such  was  the 
sanctimonious  clergyman,  with  his  white 
cravat,  who  visited  me  with  a  subscription- 
paper,  which  he  himself  had  drawn  up,  in  a 
case  of  heart-rending  distress;  —  the  re 
spectable  and  ruined  tradesman,  going  from 
door  to  door,  shy  and  silent  in  his  own  per 
son,  but  accompanied  by  a  sympathizing 
friend,  who  bore  testimony  to  his  integrity, 
and  stated  the  unavoidable  misfortunes  that 
had  crushed  him  down  ; l  —  or  the  delicate 

1  It  appears  to  be  customary  for  people  of  decent 
station,  but  in  distressed  circumstances,  to  go  round 
among  their  neighbors  and  the  public,  accompanied  by  a 
friend,  who  explains  the  case.  I  have  been  accosted  in 
the  street  in  regard  to  one  of  these  matters  ;  and  to-day 
there  came  to  my  office  a  grocer,  who  had  become  secur 
ity  for  a  friend,  and  who  was  threatened  with  an  execu 
tion,  —  with  another  grocer  for  supporter  and  advocate. 
The  beneficiary  takes  very  little  active  part  in  the  affair, 
merely  looking  careworn,  distressed,  and  pitiable,  and 
throwing  in  a  word  of  corroboration,  or  a  sigh,  or  an  ac 
knowledgment,  as  the  case  may  demand.  .  .  .  The  whole 
matter  is  very  foreign  to  American  habits.  No  respect 
able  American  would  think  of  retrieving  his  affairs  by 
such  means,  but  would  prefer  ruin  ten  times  over ;  no 
friend  would  take  up  his  cause  ;  no  public  would  think 
it  worth  while  to  prevent  the  small  catastrophe.  And 
yet  the  custom  is  not  without  its  good  side,  as  indicating 
a  closer  feeling  of  brotherhood,  a  more  efficient  sense  of 
neighborhood,  than  exists  among  ourselves,  although, 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    497 

and  prettily  dressed  lady,  who  had  been 
bred  in  affluence,  but  was  suddenly  thrown 
upon  the  perilous  charities  of  the  world 
by  the  death  of  an  indulgent,  but  secretly 
insolvent  father,  or  the  commercial  catas 
trophe  and  simultaneous  suicide  of  the  best 
of  husbands  ;  —  or  the  gifted,  but  unsuc 
cessful  author,  appealing  to  my  fraternal 
sympathies,  generously  rejoicing  in  some 
small  prosperities  which  he  was  kind 
enough  to  term  my  own  triumphs  in  the 
field  of  letters,  and  claiming  to  have  largely 
contributed  to  them  by  his  unbought  no 
tices  in  the  public  journals.  England  is 
full  of  such  people,  and  a  hundred  other 
varieties  of  peripatetic  tricksters,  higher 
than  these,  and  lower,  who  act  their  parts 
tolerably  well,  but  seldom  with  an  abso 
lutely  illusive  effect.  I  knew  at  once,  raw 
Yankee  as  I  was,  that  they  were  humbugs, 
almost  without  an  exception,  —  rats  that 
nibble  at  the  honest  bread  and  cheese  of 
the  community,  and  grow  fat  by  their  petty 
pilferings,  —  yet  often  gave  them  what 
they  asked,  and  privately  owned  myself  a 
simpleton.  There  is  a  decorum  which  re- 

perhaps,  we  are  more  careless  of  a  fellow-creature's  ruin, 
because  ruin  with  us  is  by  no  means  the  fatal  and  irre 
trievable  event  that  it  is  in  England.  —  I.  543. 


498  OUR   OLD  HOME 

strains  you  (unless  you  happen  to  be  a 
police-constable)  from  breaking  through  a 
crust  of  plausible  respectability,  even  when 
you  are  certain  that  there  is  a  knave  be 
neath  it. 

After  making  myself  as  familiar  as  I 
decently  could  with  the  poor  streets,  I  be 
came  curious  to  see  what  kind  of  a  home 
was  provided  for  the  inhabitants  at  the 
public  expense,  fearing  that  it  must  needs 
be  a  most  comfortless  one,  or  else  their 
choice  (if  choice  it  were)  of  so  miserable  a 
life  outside  was  truly  difficult  to  account 
for.  Accordingly,  I  visited  a  great  alms- 
house,  and  was  glad  to  observe  how  unex- 
ceptionably  all  the  parts  of  the  establish 
ment  were  carried  on,  and  what  an  orderly 
life,  full-fed,  sufficiently  reposeful,  and  un 
disturbed  by  the  arbitrary  exercise  of  au 
thority,  seemed  to  be  led  there.  Possibly, 
indeed,  it  was  that  very  orderliness,  and 
the  cruel  necessity  of  being  neat  and  clean, 
and  even  the  comfort  resulting  from  these 
and  other  Christian-like  restraints  and  reg 
ulations,  that  constituted  the  principal 
grievance  on  the  part  of  the  poor,  shiftless 
inmates,  accustomed  to  a  life-long  luxury 
of  dirt  and  harum-scarumness.  The  wild 
life  of  the  streets  has  perhaps  as  unforget- 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    499 

able  a  charm,  to  those  who  have  once 
thoroughly  imbibed  it,  as  the  life  of  the 
forest  or  the  prairie.  But  I  conceive  rather 
that  there  must  be  insuperable  difficulties, 
for  the  majority  of  the  poor,  in  the  way  of 
getting  admittance  to  the  almshouse,  than 
that  a  merely  aesthetic  preference  for  the 
street  would  incline  the  pauper  class  to  fare 
scantily  and  precariously,  and  expose  their 
raggedness  to  the  rain  and  snow,  when 
such  a  hospitable  door  stood  wide  open  for 
their  entrance.  It  might  be  that  the  rough 
est  and  darkest  side  of  the  matter  was  not 
shown  me,  there  being  persons  of  eminent 
station  and  of  both  sexes  in  the  party 
which  I  accompanied ;  and,  of  course,  a 
properly  trained  public  functionary  would 
have  deemed  it  a  monstrous  rudeness,  as 
well  as  a  great  shame,  to  exhibit  anything 
to  people  of  rank  that  might  too  painfully 
shock  their  sensibilities. 

The  women's  ward  was  the  portion  of 
the  establishment  which  we  especially  ex 
amined.  It  could  not  be  questioned  that 
they  were  treated  with  kindness  as  well  as 
care.  No  doubt,  as  has  been  already  sug 
gested,  some  of  them  felt  the  irksomeness 
of  submission  to  general  rules  of  orderly 
behavior,  after  being  accustomed  to  that 


500  OUR   OLD  HOME 

perfect  freedom  from  the  minor  proprieties, 
at  least,  which  is  one  of  the  compensations 
of  absolutely  hopeless  poverty,  or  of  any 
circumstances  that  set  us  fairly  below  the 
decencies  of  life.  I  asked  the  governor  of 
the  house  whether  he  met  with  any  diffi 
culty  in  keeping  peace  and  order  among 
his  inmates  ;  and  he  informed  me  that  his 
troubles  among  the  women  were  incompa 
rably  greater  than  with  the  men.  They 
were  freakish,  and  apt  to  be  quarrelsome, 
inclined  to  plague  and  pester  one  another 
in  ways  that  it  was  impossible  to  lay  hold 
of,  and  to  thwart  his  own  authority  by  the 
like  intangible  methods.  He  said  this  with 
the  utmost  good-nature,  and  quite  won  my 
regard  by  so  placidly  resigning  himself  to 
the  inevitable  necessity  of  letting  the  wo 
men  throw  dust  into  his  eyes.  They  cer 
tainly  looked  peaceable  and  sisterly  enough 
as  I  saw  them,  though  still  it  might  be 
faintly  perceptible  that  some  of  them  were 
consciously  playing  their  parts  before  the 
governor  and  his  distinguished  visitors. 

This  governor  seemed  to  me  a  man  thor 
oughly  fit  for  his  position.  An  American, 
in  an  office  of  similar  responsibility,  would 
doubtless  be  a  much  superior  person,  better 
educated,  possessing  a  far  wider  range  of 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY1    501 

thought,  more  naturally  acute,  with  a 
quicker  tact  of  external  observation  and 
a  readier  faculty  of  dealing  with  difficult 
cases.  The  women  would  not  succeed  in 
throwing  half  so  much  dust  into  his  eyes. 
Moreover,  his  black  coat,  and  thin,  sallow 
visage,  would  make  him  look  like  a  scholar, 
and  his  manners  would  indefinitely  approx 
imate  to  those  of  a  gentleman.  But  I 
cannot  help  questioning  whether,  on  the 
whole,  these  higher  endowments  would 
produce  decidedly  better  results.  The 
Englishman  was  thoroughly  plebeian  both 
in  aspect  and  behavior,  a  bluff,  ruddy-faced, 
hearty,  kindly,  yeoman-like  personage,  with 
no  refinement  whatever,  nor  any  super 
fluous  sensibility,  but  gifted  with  a  native 
wholesomeness  of  character  which  must 
have  been  a  very  beneficial  element  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  almshouse.  He  spoke 
to  his  pauper  family  in  loud,  good-humored, 
cheerful  tones,  and  treated  them  with  a 
healthy  freedom  that  probably  caused  the 
forlorn  wretches  to  feel  as  if  they  were 
free  and  healthy  likewise.  If  he  had  under 
stood  them  a  little  better,  he  would  not 
have  treated  them  half  so  wisely.  We  are 
apt  to  make  sickly  people  more  morbid, 
and  unfortunate  people  more  miserable,  by 


502  OUR   OLD   HOME 

endeavoring  to  adapt  our  deportment  to 
their  especial  and  individual  needs.  They 
eagerly  accept  our  well-meant  efforts  ;  but 
it  is  like  returning  their  own  sick  breath 
back  upon  themselves,  to  be  breathed  over 
and  over  again,  intensifying  the  inward 
mischief  at  every  reception.  The  sympa 
thy  that  would  really  do  them  good  is  of 
a  kind  that  recognizes  their  sound  and 
healthy  parts,  and  ignores  the  part  affected 
by  disease,  which  will  thrive  under  the  eye 
of  a  too  close  observer  like  a  poisonous 
weed  in  the  sunshine.  My  good  friend  the 
governor  had  no  tendencies  in  the  latter 
direction,  and  abundance  of  them  in  the 
former,  and  was  consequently  as  wholesome 
and  invigorating  as  the  west-wind  with  a 
little  spice  of  the  north  in  it,  brightening 
the  dreary  visages  that  encountered  us  as 
if  he  had  carried  a  sunbeam  in  his  hand. 
He  expressed  himself  by  his  whole  being 
and  personality,  and  by  works  more  than 
words,  and  had  the  not  unusual  English 
merit  of  knowing  what  to  do  much  better 
than  how  to  talk  about  it. 

The  women,  I  imagine,  must  have  felt 
one  imperfection  in  their  state,  however 
comfortable  otherwise.  They  were  forbid 
den,  or  at  all  events  lacked  the  means,  to 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    503 

follow  out  their  natural  instinct  of  adorn 
ing  themselves  ;  all  were  well  dressed  in 
one  homely  uniform  of  blue-checked  gowns, 
with  such  caps  upon  their  heads  as  English 
servants  wear.  Generally,  too,  they  had 
one  dowdy  English  aspect,  and  a  vulgar 
type  of  features  so  nearly  alike  that  they 
seemed  literally  to  constitute  a  sisterhood. 
We  have  few  of  these  absolutely  unillumi- 
nated  faces  among  our  native  American 
population,  individuals  of  whom  must  be 
singularly  unfortunate,  if,  mixing  as  we 
do,  no  drop  of  gentle  blood  has  contributed 
to  refine  the  turbid  element,  no  gleam  of 
hereditary  intelligence  has  lighted  up  the 
stolid  eyes,  which  their  forefathers  brought 
from  the  Old  Country.  Even  in  this  Eng 
lish  almshouse,  however,  there  was  at  least 
one  person  who  claimed  to  be  intimately 
connected  with  rank  and  wealth.  The 
governor,  after  suggesting  that  this  per 
son  would  probably  be  gratified  by  our 
visit,  ushered  us  into  a  small  parlor,  which 
was  furnished  a  little  more  like  a  room 
in  a  private  dwelling  than  others  that  we 
entered,  and  had  a  row  of  religious  books 
and  fashionable  novels  on  the  mantelpiece. 
An  old  lady  sat  at  a  bright  coal-fire,  reading 
a  romance,  and  rose  to  receive  us  with  a 


504 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


certain  pomp  of  manner  and  elaborate  dis 
play  of  ceremonious  courtesy,  which,  in 
spite  of  myself,  made  me  inwardly  question 
the  genuineness  of  her  aristocratic  preten 
sions.  But,  at  any  rate,  she  looked  like 
a  respectable  old  soul,  and  was  evidently 
gladdened  to  the  very  core  of  her  frost 
bitten  heart  by  the  awful  punctiliousness 
with  which  we  responded  to  her  gracious 
and  hospitable,  though  unfamiliar  welcome. 
After  a  little  polite  conversation,  we  re 
tired  ;  and  the  governor,  with  a  lowered 
voice  and  an  air  of  deference,  told  us  that 
she  had  been  a  lady  of  quality,  and  had 
ridden  in  her  own  equipage,  not  many  years 
before,  and  now  lived  in  continual  expecta 
tion  that  some  of  her  rich  relatives  would 
drive  up  in  their  carriages  to  take  her 
away.  Meanwhile,  he  added,  she  was 
treated  with  great  respect  by  her  fellow- 
paupers.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  from  a 
few  criticisable  peculiarities  in  her  talk  and 
manner,  that  there  might  have  been  a  mis 
take  on  the  governor's  part,  and  perhaps 
a  venial  exaggeration  on  the  old  lady's, 
concerning  her  former  position  in  society  ; 
but  what  struck  me  was  the  forcible  in 
stance  of  that  most  prevalent  of  English 
vanities,  the  pretension  to  aristocratic  con- 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    505 

nection,  on  one  side,  and  the  submission 
and  reverence  with  which  it  was  accepted 
by  the  governor  and  his  household,  on  the 
other.  Among  ourselves,  I  think,  when 
wealth  and  eminent  position  have  taken 
their  departure,  they  seldom  leave  a  pallid 
ghost  behind  them,  —  or,  if  it  sometimes 
stalks  abroad,  few  recognize  it. 

We  went  into  several  other  rooms,  at  the 
doors  of  which,  pausing  on  the  outside,  we 
could  hear  the  volubility,  and  sometimes 
the  wrangling,  of  the  female  inhabitants 
within,  but  invariably  found  silence  and 
peace  when  we  stepped  over  the  threshold. 
The  women  were  grouped  together  in  their 
sitting  -  rooms,  sometimes  three  or  four, 
sometimes  a  larger  number,  classified  by 
their  spontaneous  affinities,  I  suppose,  and 
all  busied,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  with 
the  one  occupation  of  knitting  coarse  yarn 
stockings.  Hardly  any  of  them,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  had  a  brisk  or  cheerful  air,  though 
it  often  stirred  them  up  to  a  momentary 
vivacity  to  be  accosted  by  the  governor, 
and  they  seemed  to  like  being  noticed, 
however  slightly,  by  the  visitors.  The 
happiest  person  whom  I  saw  there  (and 
running  hastily  through  my  experiences,  I 
hardly  recollect  to  have  seen  a  happier  one 


506  OUR   OLD  HOME 

in  my  life,  if  you  take  a  careless  flow  of 
spirits  as   happiness)  was  an   old   woman 
that  lay  in  bed  among  ten  or  twelve  heavy- 
looking  females,  who  plied  their  knitting- 
work  round  about  her.     She  laughed,  when 
we  entered,  and  immediately  began  to  talk 
to  us,  in  a  thin,  little,  spirited  quaver,  claim 
ing  to  be  more  than  a  century  old  ;    and 
the  governor  (in  whatever  way  he  happened 
to  be  cognizant  of  the  fact)  confirmed  her 
age  to  be  a  hundred  and  four.     Her  jaun- 
tiness  and  cackling  merriment  were  really 
wonderful.     It    was    as    if    she    had    got 
through  with  all  her  actual  business  in  life 
two  or   three   generations   ago,  and    now, 
freed  from  every  responsibility  for  herself 
or  others,  had  only  to  keep  up  a  mirthful 
state  of  mind  till  the  short  time,  or  long 
time  (and,  happy  as  she  was,  she  appeared 
not  to  care  whether  it  were  long  or  short), 
before  Death,  who  had  misplaced  her  name 
in  his  list,  might  remember  to    take    her 
away.     She  had  gone  quite  round  the  circle 
of  human  existence,  and  come  back  to  the 
play-ground  again.     And  so  she  had  grown 
to  be  a  kind  of   miraculous   old   pet,  the 
plaything  of  people  seventy  or  eighty  years 
younger    than    herself,    who    talked    and 
laughed   with  her  as  if  she  were  a  child, 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    507 

finding  great  delight  in  her  wayward  and 
strangely  playful  responses,  into  some  of 
which  she  cunningly  conveyed  a  gibe  that 
caused  their  ears  to  tingle  a  little.  She 
had  done  getting  out  of  bed  in  this  world, 
and  lay  there  to  be  waited  upon  like  a 
queen  or  a  baby. 

In  the  same  room  sat  a  pauper  who  had 
once  been  an  actress  of  considerable  re 
pute,  but  was  compelled  to  give  up  her 
profession  by  a  softening  of  the  brain. 
The  disease  seemed  to  have  stolen  the  con 
tinuity  out  of  her  life,  and  disturbed  all 
healthy  relationship  between  the  thoughts 
within  her  and  the  world  without.  On  our 
first  entrance,  she  looked  cheerfully  at  us, 
and  showed  herself  ready  to  engage  in 
conversation ;  but  suddenly,  while  we  were 
talking  with  the  century-old  crone,  the  poor 
actress  began  .to  weep,  contorting  her  face 
with  extravagant  stage-grimaces,  and  wring 
ing  her  hands  for  some  inscrutable  sorrow. 
It  might  have  been  a  reminiscence  of  ac 
tual  calamity  in  her  past  life,  or,  quite  as 
probably,  it  was  but  a  dramatic  woe,  be 
neath  which  she  had  staggered  and  shrieked 
and  wrung  her  hands  with  hundreds  of 
repetitions  in  the  sight  of  crowded  thea 
tres,  and  been  as  often  comforted  by  thun- 


508  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ders  of  applause.  But  my  idea  of  the  mys 
tery  was,  that  she  had  a  sense  of  wrong  in 
seeing  the  aged  woman  (whose  empty  vivac 
ity  was  like  the  rattling  of  dry  peas  in  a 
bladder)  chosen  as  the  central  object  of 
interest  to  the  visitors,  while  she  herself, 
who  had  agitated  thousands  of  hearts  with 
a  breath,  sat  starving  for  the  admiration 
that  was  her  natural  food.  I  appeal  to  the 
whole  society  of  artists  of  the  Beautiful 
and  the  Imaginative,  —  poets,  romancers, 
painters,  sculptors,  actors,  —  whether  or  no 
this  is  a  grief  that  may  be  felt  even  amid 
the  torpor  of  a  dissolving  brain  ! 

We  looked  into  a  good  many  sleeping- 
chambers,  where  were  rows  of  beds,  mostly 
calculated  for  two  occupants,  and  provided 
with  sheets  and  pillow-cases  that  resem 
bled  sackcloth.  It  appeared  to  me  that 
the  sense  of  beauty  was  insufficiently  re 
garded  in  all  the  arrangements  of  the  alms- 
house  ;  a  little  cheap  luxury  for  the  eye,  at 
least,  might  do  the  poor  folks  a  substantial 
good.  But,  at  all  events,  there  was  the 
beauty  of  perfect  neatness  and  orderliness, 
which,  being  heretofore  known  to  few  of 
them,  was  perhaps  as  much  as  they  could 
well  digest  in  the  remnant  of  their  lives. 
We  were  invited  into  the  laundry,  where  a 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    509 

great  washing  and  drying  were  in  process, 
the  whole  atmosphere  being  hot  and  vapor 
ous  with  the  steam  of  wet  garments  and 
bedclothes.  This  atmosphere  was  the  pau 
per-life  of  the  past  week  or  fortnight  re 
solved  into  a  gaseous  state,  and  breathing 
it,  however  fastidiously,  we  were  forced  to 
inhale  the  strange  element  into  our  inmost 
being.  Had  the  Queen  been  there,  I  know 
not  how  she  could  have  escaped  the  neces 
sity.  What  an  intimate  brotherhood  is 
this  in  which  we  dwell,  do  what  we  may  to 
put  an  artificial  remoteness  between  the 
high  creature  and  the  low  one !  A  poor 
man's  breath,  borne  on  the  vehicle  of  to 
bacco-smoke,  floats  into  a  palace  -  window 
and  reaches  the  nostrils  of  a  monarch.  It 
is  but  an  example,  obvious  to  the  sense,  of 
the  innumerable  and  secret  channels  by 
which,  at  every  moment  of  our  lives,  the 
flow  and  reflux  of  a  common  humanity  per 
vade  us  all.  How  superficial  are  the  nice 
ties  of  such  as  pretend  to  keep  aloof!  Let 
the  whole  world  be  cleansed,  or  not  a  man 
or  woman  of  us  all  can  be  clean. 

By  and  by  we  came  to  the  ward  where 
the  children  were  kept,  on  entering  which, 
we  saw,  in  the  first  place,  several  unlovely 
and  unwholesome  little  people  lazily  play- 


5io 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


ing  together  in  a  court-yard.  And  here  a 
singular  incommodity  befell  one  member 
of  our  party.  Among  the  children  was  a 
wretched,  pale,  half  -  torpid  little  thing 
(about  six  years  old,  perhaps,  but  I  know 
not  whether  a  girl  or  a  boy),  with  a  humor 
in  its  eyes  and  face,  which  the  governor 
said  was  the  scurvy,  and  which  appeared 
to  bedim  its  powers  of  vision,  so  that  it 
toddled  about  gropingly,  as  if  in  quest  of  it 
did  not  precisely  know  what.  This  child 
—  this  sickly,  wretched,  humor-eaten  infant, 
the  offspring  of  unspeakable  sin  and  sorrow^ 
whom  it  must  have  required  several  gener 
ations  of  guilty  progenitors  to  render  so 
pitiable  an  object  as  we  beheld  it  —  im 
mediately  took  an  unaccountable  fancy  to 
the  gentleman  just  hinted  at.  It  prowled 
about  him  like  a  pet  kitten,  rubbing  against 
his  legs,  following  everywhere  at  his  heels, 
pulling  at  his  coat-tails,  and,  at  last,  exert 
ing  all  the  speed  that  its  poor  limbs  were 
capable  of,  got  directly  before  him  and 
held  forth  its  arms,  mutely  insisting  on 
being  taken  up.  It  said  not  a  word,  being 
perhaps  underwitted  and  incapable  of  prat 
tle.  But  it  smiled  up  in  his  face,  —  a  sort 
of  woful  gleam  was  that  smile,  through  the 
sickly  blotches  that  covered  its  features,  — 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    511 

and  found  means  to  express  such  a  perfect 
confidence  that  it  was  going  to  be  fondled 
and  made  much  of,  that  there  was  no  pos 
sibility  in  a  human  heart  of  balking  its  ex 
pectation.  It  was  as  if  God  had  promised 
the  poor  child  this  favor  on  behalf  of  that 
individual,  and  he  was  bound  to  fulfill  the 
contract,  or  else  no  longer  call  himself  a 
man  among  men.  Nevertheless,  it  could 
be  no  easy  thing  for  him  to  do,  he  being  a 
person  burdened  with  more  than  an  Eng 
lishman's  customary  reserve,  shy  of  actual 
contact  with  human  beings,  afflicted  with 
a  peculiar  distaste  for  whatever  was  ugly, 
and,  furthermore,  accustomed  to  that  habit 
of  observation  from  an  insulated  stand 
point  which  is  said  (but,  I  hope,  errone 
ously)  to  have  the  tendency  of  putting  ice* 
into  the  blood. 

So  I  watched  the  struggle-  in  his  mind 
with  a  good  deal  of  interest,  and  am  seri 
ously  of  opinion  that  he  did  an  heroic  act, 
and  effected  more  than  he  dreamed  of  to 
wards  his  final  salvation,  when  he  took  up 
the  loathsome  child  and  caressed  it  as  ten 
derly  as  if  he  had  been  its  father.  To  be 
sure,  we  all  smiled  at  him,  at  the  time,  but 
doubtless  would  have  acted  pretty  much 
the  same  in  a  similar  stress  of  circum- 


512  OUR   OLD   HOME 

stances.  The  child,  at  any  rate,  appeared 
to  be  satisfied  with  his  behavior ;  for  when 
he  had  held  it  a  considerable  time,  and  set 
it  down,  it  still  favored  him  with  its  com 
pany,  keeping  fast  hold  of  his  forefinger 
till  we  reached  the  confines  of  the  place. 
And  on  our  return  through  the  court-yard, 
after  visiting  another  part  of  the  establish 
ment,  here  again  was  this  same  little 
Wretchedness  waiting  for  its  victim,  with 
a  smile  of  joyful,  and  yet  dull  recognition 
about  its  scabby  mouth  and  in  its  rheumy 
eyes.  No  doubt,  the  child's  mission  in 
reference  to  our  friend  was  to  remind  him 
that  he  was  responsible,  in  his  degree,  for 
all  the  sufferings  and  misdemeanors  of 
the  world  in  which  he  lived,  and  was  not 
entitled  to  look  upon  a  particle  of  its  dark 
calamity  as  if  it  were  none  of  his  concern  : 
the  offspring-  of  a  brother's  iniquity  being 
his  own  blood-relation,  and  the  guilt,  like 
wise,  a  burden  on  him,  unless  he  expiated 
it  by  better  deeds.1 

1  February  28,  1856.  "  After  this,  we  went  to  the  ward 
[West  Derby  Workhouse]  where  the  children  were  kept, 
and,  on  entering  this,  we  saw,  in  the  first  place,  two  or 
three  unlovely  and  ilnwholesome  little  imps,  who  were 
lazily  playing  together.  One  of  them  (a  child  about  six 
years  old,  but  I  know  not  whether  girl  or  boy)  immedi 
ately  took  the  strangest  fancy  for  me.  It  was  a  wretched> 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    513 

All  the  children  in  this  ward  seemed  to 
be  invalids,  and,  going  upstairs,  we  found 
more  of  them  in  the  same  or  a  worse  con 
dition  than  the  little  creature  just  de 
scribed,  with  their  mothers  (or  more  prob 
ably  other  women,  for  the  infants  were 
mostly  foundlings)  in  attendance  as  nurses. 
The  matron  of  the  ward,  a  middle-aged 
woman,  remarkably  kind  and  motherly  in 
aspect,  was  walking  to  and  fro  across  the 

pale,  half-torpid  little  thing,  with  a  humor  in  its  eyes 
which  the  governor  said  was  the  scurvy.  I  never  saw, 
till  a  few  moments  afterwards,  a  child  that  I  should  feel 
less  inclined  to  fondle.  But  this  little,  sickly,  humor- 
eaten  fright  prowled  around  me,  taking  hold  of  my  skirts, 
following  at  my  heels,  and  at  last  held  up  its  hands, 
smiled  in  my  face,  and,  standing  directly  before  me,  in 
sisted  on  my  taking  it  up  !  Not  that  it  said  a  word,  for 
I  rather  think  it  was  undeiwitted,  and  could  not  talk; 
but  its  face  expressed  such  perfect  confidence  that  it 
was  going  to  be  taken  up  and  made  much  of,  that  it 
was  impossible  not  to  do  it.  It  was  as  if  God  had 
promised  the  child  this  favor  on  my  behalf,  and  that  I 
must  needs  fulfill  the  contract.  1  held  my  undesirable 
burden  a  little  while ;  and,  after  setting  the  child  down, 
it  still  followed  me,  holding  two  of  my  fingers  and  play 
ing  with  them,  just  as  if  it  were  a  child  of  my  own.  It 
was  a  foundling,  and  out  of  all  human  kind  it  chose  me 
to  be  its  father  !  We  went  up  stairs  into  another  ward ; 
and,  on  coming  down  again,  there  was  this  same  child 
waiting  for  me,  with  a  sickly  smile  round  its  defaced 
mouth,  and  in  its  dim  red  eyes.  ...  I  never  should 
have  forgiven  myself  if  I  had  repelled  its  advances."  — 
II.  184. 


514  OUR   OLD  HOME 

chamber  —  on  that  weary  journey  in  which 
careful  mothers  and  nurses  travel  so  con 
tinually  and  so  far,  and  gain  never  a  step 
of  progress  —  with  an  unquiet  baby  in  her 
arms.  She  assured  us  that  she  enjoyed 
her  occupation,  being  exceedingly  fond  of 
children ;  and,  in  fact,  the  absence  of  ti 
midity  in  all  the  little  people  was  a  suffi 
cient  proof  that  they  could  have  had  no 
experience  of  harsh  treatment,  though,  on 
the  other  hand,  none  of  them  appeared  to 
be  attracted  to  one  individual  more  than 
another.  In  this  point  they  differed  widely 
from  the  poor  child  below  stairs.  They 
seemed  to  recognize  a  universal  mother 
hood  in  womankind,  and  cared  not  which 
individual  might  be  the  mother  of  the  mo 
ment.  I  found  their  tameness  as  shock 
ing  as  did  Alexander  Selkirk  that  of  the 
brute  subjects  of  his  else  solitary  kingdom. 
It  was  a  sort  of  tame  familiarity,  a  perfect 
indifference  to  the  approach  of  strangers, 
such  as  I  never  noticed  in  other  children. 
I  accounted  for  it  partly  by  their  nerveless, 
unstrung  state  of  body,  incapable  of  the 
quick  thrills  of  delight  and  fear  which  play 
upon  the  lively  harp-strings  of  a  healthy 
child's  nature,  and  partly  by  their  woful 
lack  of  acquaintance  with  a  private  home, 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    515 

and  their  being  therefore  destitute  of  the 
sweet  home-bred  shyness,  which  is  like  the 
sanctity  of  heaven  about  a  mother-petted 
child.  Their  condition  was  like  that  of 
chickens  hatched  in  an  oven,  and  growing 
up  without  the  especial  guardianship  of  a 
matron  hen :  both  the  chicken  and  the 
child,  methinks,  must  needs  want  some 
thing  that  is  essential  to  their  respective 
characters. 

In  this  chamber  (which  was  spacious, 
containing  a  large  number  of  beds)  there 
was  a  clear  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  as 
in  all  the  other  occupied  rooms ;  and  di 
rectly  in  front  of  the  blaze  sat  a  woman 
holding  a  baby,  which,  beyond  all  reach  of 
comparison,  was  the  most  horrible  object 
that  ever  afflicted  my  sight.  Days  after 
wards  —  nay,  even  now,  when  I  bring  it  up 
vividly  before  my  mind's  eye  —  it  seemed 
to  lie  upon  the  floor  of  my  heart,  pollut 
ing  my  moral  being  with  the  sense  of 
something  grievously  amiss  in  the  entire 
conditions  of  humanity.  The  holiest  man 
could  not  be  otherwise  than  full  of  wick 
edness,  the  chastest  virgin  seemed  impure, 
in  a  world  where  such  a  babe  was  possi 
ble.  The  governor  whispered  me,  apart, 
that,  like  nearly  all  the  rest  of  them,  it  was 


516  OUR   OLD  HOME 

the  child  of  unhealthy  parents.  Ah,  yes ! 
There  was  the  mischief.  This  spectral  in 
fant,  a  hideous  mockery  of  the  visible  link 
which  Love  creates  between  man  and  wo 
man,  was  born  of  disease  and  sin.  Dis 
eased  Sin  was  its  father,  and  Sinful  Disease 
its  mother,  and  their  offspring  lay  in  the 
woman's  arms  like  a  nursing  Pestilence, 
which,  could  it  live  and  grow  up,  would 
make  the  world  a  more  accursed  abode 
than  ever  heretofore.  Thank  Heaven,  it 
could  not  live  !  This  baby,  if  we  must 
give  it  that  sweet  name,  seemed  to  be 
three  or  four  months  old,  but,  being  such 
an  unthrifty  changeling,  might  have  been 
considerably  older.  It  was  all  covered 
with  blotches,  and  preternaturally  dark  and 
discolored  ;  it  was  withered  away,  quite 
shrunken  and  fleshless  ;  it  breathed  only 
amid  pantings  and  gaspings,  and  moaned 
painfully  at  every  gasp.  The  only  comfort 
in  reference  to  it  was  the  evident  impossi 
bility  of  its  surviving  to  draw  many  more 
of  those  miserable,  moaning  breaths  ;  and 
it  would  have  been  infinitely  less  heart- 
depressing  to  see  it  die,  right  before  my 
eyes,  than  to  depart  and  carry  it  alive  in 
my  remembrance,  still  suffering  the  incal 
culable  torture  of  its  little  life.  I  can  by 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    517 

mo  means  express  how  horrible  this  infant 
was,  neither  ought  I  to  attempt  it.  And 
yet  I  must  add  one  final  touch.  Young  as 
the  poor  little  creature  was,  its  pain  and 
misery  had  endowed  it  with  a  premature 
intelligence,  insomuch  that  its  eyes  seemed 
to  stare  at  the  by-standers  out  of  their 
sunken  sockets  knowingly  and  appealingly, 
as  if  summoning  us  one  and  all  to  wit 
ness  the  deadly  wrong  of  its  existence. 
At  least,  I  so  interpreted  its  look,  when  it 
positively  met  and  responded  to  my  own 
awe-stricken  gaze,  and  therefore  I  lay  the 
case,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  before  mankind, 
on  whom  God  has  imposed  the  necessity 
to  suffer  in  soul  and  body  till  this  dark  and 
dreadful  wrong  be  righted. 

Thence  we  went  to  the  school -rooms, 
which  were  underneath  the  chapel.  The 
pupils,  like  the  children  whom  we  had  just 
seen,  were,  in  large  proportion,  foundlings. 
Almost  without  exception,  they  looked 
sickly,  with  marks  of  eruptive  trouble  in 
their  doltish  faces,  and  a  general  tendency 
to  diseases  of  the  eye.  Moreover,  the 
poor  little  wretches  appeared  to  be  uneasy 
within  their  skins,  and  screwed  themselves 
about  on  the  benches  in  a  disagreeably 
suggestive  way,  as  if  they  had  inherited 


518  OUR   OLD   HOME 

the  evil  habits  of  their  parents  as  an  in-  * 
nermost  garment  of  the  same  texture  and 
material  as  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  and  must 
wear  it  with  unspeakable  discomfort  as  long 
as  they  lived.  I  saw  only  a  single  child 
that  looked  healthy ;  and  on  my  pointing 
him  out,  the  governor  informed  me  that 
this  little  boy,  the  sole  exception  to  the 
miserable  aspect  of  his  school-fellows,  was 
not  a  foundling,  nor  properly  a  workhouse 
child,  being  born  of  respectable  parent 
age,  and  his  father  one  of  the  officers  of 
the  institution.  As  for  the  remainder,  — 
the  hundred  pale  abortions  to  be  counted 
against  one  rosy-cheeked  boy,  —  what  shall 
we  say  or  do  ?  Depressed  by  the  sight  of 
so  much  misery,  and  uninventive  of  reme 
dies  for  the  evils  that  force  themselves  on 
my  perception,  I  can  do  little  more  than 
recur  to  the  idea  already  hinted  at  in  the 
early  part  of  this  article,  regarding  the 
speedy  necessity  of  a  new  deluge.  So  far 
as  these  children  are  concerned,  at  any 
rate,  it  would  be  a  blessing  to  the  human 
race,  which  they  will  contribute  to  ener 
vate  and  corrupt,  —  a  greater  blessing  to 
themselves,  who  inherit  no  patrimony  but 
disease  and  vice,  and  in  whose  souls,  if 
there  be  a  spark  of  God's  life,  this  seems 


GLIMPSES   OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    519 

the  only  possible  mode  of  keeping  it  aglow, 
—  if  every  one  of  them  could  be  drowned 
to-night,  by  their  best  friends,  instead  of 
being  put  tenderly  to  bed.  This  heroic 
method  of  treating  human  maladies,  moral 
and  material,  is  certainly  beyond  the  scope 
of  man's  discretionary  rights,  and  probably 
will  not  be  adopted  by  Divine  Providence 
until  the  opportunity  of  milder  reformation 
shall  have  been  offered  us  again  and  again, 
through  a  series  of  future  ages. 

It  may  be  fair  to  acknowledge  that  the 
humane  and  excellent  governor,  as  well  as 
other  persons  better  acquainted  with  the 
subject  than  myself,  took  a  less  gloomy 
view  of  it,  though  still  so  dark  a  one  as  to 
involve  scanty  consolation.  They  remarked 
that  individuals  of  the  male  sex,  picked  up 
in  the  streets  and  nurtured  in  the  work 
house,  sometimes  succeed  tolerably  well  in 
life,  because  they  are  taught  trades  before 
being  turned  into  the  world,  and,  by  dint 
of  immaculate  behavior  and  good  luck,  are 
not  unlikely  to  get  employment  and  earn  a 
livelihood.  The  case  is  different  with  the 
girls.  They  can  only  go  to  service,  and 
are  invariably  rejected  by  families  of  re 
spectability  on  account  of  their  origin,  and 
for  the  better  reason  of  their  unfitness  to 


520 


OUR   OLD  HOME 


fill  satisfactorily  even  the  meanest  situa 
tions  in  a  well-ordered  English  household. 
Their  resource  is  to  take  service  with 
people  only  a  step  or  two  above  the  poorest 
class,  with  whom  they  fare  scantily,  endure 
harsh  treatment,  lead  shifting  and  preca 
rious  lives,  and  finally  drop  into  the  slough 
of  evil,  through  which,  in  their  best  estate, 
they  do  but  pick  their  slimy  way  on  step 
ping-stones. 

From  the  schools  we  went  to  the  bake 
house,  and  the  brew-house  (for  such  cruelty 
is  not  harbored  in  the  heart  of  a  true  Eng 
lishman  as  to  deny  a  pauper  his  daily 
allowance  of  beer),  and  through  the  kitch 
ens,  where  we  beheld  an  immense  pot  over 
the  fire,  surging  and  walloping  with  some 
kind  of  a  savory  stew  that  filled  it  up  to  its 
brim.  We  also  visited  a  tailor's  shop,  and 
a  shoemaker's  shop,  in  both  of  which  a 
number  of  men,  and  pale,  diminutive  ap 
prentices,  were  at  work,  diligently  enough, 
though  seemingly  with  small  heart  in  the 
business.  Finally,  the  governor  ushered 
us  into  a  shed,  inside  of  which  was  piled 
up  an  immense  quantity  of  new  coffins. 
They  were  of  the  plainest  description, 
made  of  pine  boards,  probably  of  Ameri 
can  growth,  not  very  nicely  smoothed  by 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    52! 

the  plane,  neither  painted  nor  stained  with 
black,  but  provided  with  a  loop  of  rope  at 
either  end  for  the  convenience  of  lifting 
the  rude  box  and  its  inmate  into  the  cart 
that  shall  carry  them  to  the  burial-ground. 
There,  in  holes  ten  feet  deep,  the  paupers 
are  buried  one  above  another,  mingling 
their  relics  indistinguishably.  In  another 
world  may  they  resume  their  individuality, 
and  find  it  a  happier  one  than  here ! 

As  we  departed,  a  character  came  under 
our  notice  which  I  have  met  with  in  all 
almshouses,  whether  of  the  city  or  village, 
or  in  England  or  America.  It  was  the  fa 
miliar  simpleton,  who  shuffled  across  the 
court  -  yard,  clattering  his  wooden  -  soled 
shoes,  to  greet  us  with  a  howl  or  a  laugh, 
I  hardly  know  which,  holding  out  his  hand 
for  a  penny,  and  chuckling  grossly  when  it 
was  given  him.  All  underwitted  persons, 
so  far  as  my  experience  goes,  have  this 
craving  for  copper  coin,  and  appear  to  es 
timate  its  value  by  a  miraculous  instinct, 
which  is  one  of  the  earliest  gleams  of  hu 
man  intelligence  while  the  nobler  faculties 
are  yet  in  abeyance.  There  may  come  a 
time,  even  in  this  world,  when  we  shall  all 
understand  that  our  tendency  to  the  indi 
vidual  appropriation  of  gold  and  broad 


522  OUR   OLD  HOME 

acres,  fine  houses,  and  such  good  and  beau 
tiful  things  as  are  equally  enjoyable  by  a 
multitude,  is  but  a  trait  of  imperfectly  de 
veloped  intelligence,  like  the  simpleton's 
cupidity  of  a  penny.  When  that  day 
dawns,  —  and  probably  not  till  then,  —  I 
imagine  that  there  will  be  no  more  poor 
streets  nor  need  of  almshouses. 

I  was  once  present  at  the  wedding  of 
some  poor  English  people,  and  was  deeply 
impressed  by  the  spectacle,  though  by  no 
means  with  such  proud  and  delightful  emo 
tions  as  seem  to  have  affected  all  England 
on  the  recent  occasion  of  the  marriage  of 
its  Prince.  It  was  in  the  Cathedral  at 
Manchester,  a  particularly  black  and  grim 
old  structure,  into  which  I  had  stepped  to 
examine  some  ancient  and  curious  wood- 
carvings  within  the  choir.  The  woman  in 
attendance  greeted  me  with  a  smile  (which 
always  glimmers  forth  on  the  feminine  vis 
age,  I  know  not  why,  when  a  wedding  is 
in  question),  and  asked  me  to  take  a  seat 
in  the  nave  till  some  poor  parties  were 
married,  it  being  the  Easter  holidays,  and 
a  good  time  for  them  to  marry,  because  no 
fees  would  be  demanded  by  the  clergyman. 
I  sat  down  accordingly,  and  soon  the  par 
son  and  his  clerk  appeared  at  the  altar,  and 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    523 

a  considerable  crowd  of  people  made  their 
entrance  at  a  side-door,  and  ranged  them 
selves  in  a  long,  huddled  line  across  the 
chancel.  They  were  my  acquaintances  of 
the  poor  streets,  or  persons  in  a  precisely 
similar  condition  of  life,  and  were  now 
come  to  their  marriage-ceremony  in  just 
such  garbs  as  I  had  always  seen  them 
wear  :  the  men  in  their  loafers'  coats,  out 
at  elbows,  or  their  laborers'  jackets,  de 
faced  with  grimy  toil ;  the  women  drawing 
their  shabby  shawls  tighter  about  their 
shoulders,  to  hide  the  raggedness  beneath  ; 
all  of  them  unbrushed,  unshaven,  unwashed, 
uncombed,  and  wrinkled  with  penury  and 
care  ;  nothing  virgin-like  in  the  brides,  nor 
hopeful  or  energetic  in  the  bridegrooms  ; 
—  they  were,  in  short,  the  mere  rags  and 
tatters  of  the  human  race,  whom  some 
east-wind  of  evil  omen,  howling  along  the 
streets,  had  chanced  to  sweep  together  into 
an  unfragrant  heap.  Each  and  all  of  them, 
conscious  of  his  or  her  individual  misery, 
had  blundered  into  the  strange  miscalcu 
lation  of  supposing  that  they  could  lessen 
the  sum  of  it  by  multiplying  it  into  the 
misery  of  another  person.  All  the  couples 
(and  it  was  difficult,  in  such  a  confused 
crowd,  to  compute  exactly  their  number) 


524  OUR   OLD  HOME 

stood  up  at  once,  and  had  execution  done 
upon  them  in  the  lump,  the  clergyman  ad 
dressing  only  small  parts  of  the  service  to 
each  individual  pair,  but  so  managing  the 
larger  portion  as  to  include  the  whole  com 
pany  without  the  trouble  of  repetition.  By 
this  compendious  contrivance,  one  would 
apprehend,  he  came  dangerously  near  mak 
ing  every  man  and  woman  the  husband  or 
wife  of  every  other  ;  nor,  perhaps,  would 
he  have  perpetrated  much  additional  mis 
chief  by  the  mistake ;  but,  after  receiving 
a  benediction  in  common,  they  assorted 
themselves  in  their  own  fashion,  as  they 
only  knew  how,  and  departed  to  the  gar 
rets,  or  the  cellars,  or  the  unsheltered 
street-corners,  where  their  honeymoon  and 
subsequent  lives  were  to  be  spent.  The 
parson  smiled  decorously,  the  clerk  and 
the  sexton  grinned  broadly,  the  female 
attendant  tittered  almost  aloud,  and  even 
the  married  parties  seemed  to  see  some 
thing  exceedingly  funny  in  the  affair ;  but 
for  my  part,  though  generally  apt  enough 
to  be  tickled  by  a  joke,  I  laid  it  away  in 
my  memory  as  one  of  the  saddest  sights  I 
ever  looked  upon. 

Not  very  long  afterwards,  I  happened  to 
be  passing  the  same  venerable  cathedral, 


GLIMPSES  OF  ENGLISH  POVERTY    525 

and  heard  a  clang  of  joyful  bells,  and  be 
held  a  bridal  party  coming  down  the  steps 
towards  a  carriage  and  four  horses,  with  a 
portly  coachman  and  two  postilions,  that 
waited  at  the  gate.  One  parson  and  one 
service  had  amalgamated  the  wretched 
ness  of  a  score  of  paupers ;  a  Bishop  and 
three  or  four  clergymen  had  combined 
their  spiritual  might  to  forge  the  golden 
links  of  this  other  marriage  -  bond.  The 
bridegroom's  mien  had  a  sort  of  careless 
and  kindly  English  pride ;  the  bride  floated 
along  in  her  white  drapery,  a  creature  so 
nice  and  delicate  that  it  was  a  luxury  to 
see  her,  and  a  pity  that  her  silk  slippers 
should  touch  anything  so  grimy  as  the 
old  stones  of  the  churchyard  avenue.  The 
crowd  of  ragged  people,  who  always  cluster 
to  witness  what  they  may  of  an  aristocratic 
wedding,  broke  into  audible  admiration  of 
the  bride's  beauty  and  the  bridegroom's 
manliness,  and  uttered  prayers  and  ejacu 
lations  (possibly  paid  for  in  alms)  for  the 
happiness  of  both.  If  the  most  favorable 
of  earthly  conditions  could  make  them 
happy,  they  had  every  prospect  of  it.  They 
were  going  to  live  on  their  abundance  in 
one  of  those  stately  and  delightful  English 
homes,  such  as  no  other  people  ever  ere- 


526  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ated  or  inherited,  a  hall  set  far  and  safe 
within  its  own  private  grounds,  and  sur 
rounded  with  venerable  trees,  shaven  lawns, 
rich  shrubbery,  and  trimmest  pathways,  the 
whole  so  artfully  contrived  and  tended  that 
summer  rendered  it  a  paradise,  and  even 
winter  would  hardly  disrobe  it  of  its  beauty ; 
and  all  this  fair  property  seemed  more  ex 
clusively  and  inalienably  their  own,  because 
of  its  descent  through  many  forefathers, 
each  of  whom  had  added  an  improvement 
or  a  charm,  and  thus  transmitted  it  with  a 
stronger  stamp  of  rightful  possession  to  his 
heir.  And  is  it  possible,  after  all,  that 
there  may  be  a  flaw  in  the  title-deeds  ?  Is, 
or  is  not,  the  system  wrong  that  gives  one 
married  pair  so  immense  a  superfluity  of 
luxurious  home,  and  shuts  out  a  million 
others  from  any  home  whatever?  One 
day  or  another,  safe  as  they  deem  them 
selves,  and  safe  as  the  hereditary  temper 
of  the  people  really  tends  to  make  them, 
the  gentlemen  of  England  will  be  com 
pelled  to  face  this  question. 


XII. 

CIVIC   BANQUETS 

IT  has  often  perplexed  me  to  imagine 
how  an  Englishman  will  be  able  to  recon 
cile  himself  to  any  future  state  of  existence 
from  which  the  earthly  institution  of  dinner 
shall  be  excluded.  Even  if  he  fail  to  take 
his  appetite  along  with  him  (which  it  seems 
to  me  hardly  possible  to  believe,  since  this 
endowment  is  so  essential  to  his  compo 
sition),  the  immortal  day  must  still  admit 
an  interim  of  two  or  three  hours  during 
which  he  will  be  conscious  of  a  slight  dis 
taste,  at  all  events,  if  not  an  absolute  re 
pugnance,  to  merely  spiritual  nutriment. 
The  idea  of  dinner  has  so  imbedded  itself 
among  his  highest  and  deepest  character 
istics,  so  illuminated  itself  with  intellect 
and  softened  itself  with  the  kindest  emo 
tions  of  his  heart,  so  linked  itself  with 
Church  and  State,  and  grown  so  majestic 
with  long  hereditary  customs  and  cere 
monies,  that,  by  taking  it  utterly  away, 
Death,  instead  of  putting  the  final  touch 


528  OUR   OLD  HOME 

to  his  perfection,  would  leave  him  infinitely 
less  complete  than  we  have  already  known 
him.  He  could  not  be  roundly  happy. 
Paradise,  among  all  its  enjoyments,  would 
lack  one  daily  felicity  which  his  sombre 
little  island  possessed.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
irreverent  to  conjecture  that  a  provision 
may  have  been  made,  in  this  particular,  for 
the  Englishman's  exceptional  necessities. 
It  strikes  me  that  Milton  was  of  the  opin 
ion  here  suggested,  and  may  have  intended 
to  throw  out  a  delightful  and  consolatory 
hope  for  his  countrymen,  when  he  repre 
sents  the  genial  archangel  as  playing  his 
part  with  such  excellent  appetite  at  Adam's 
dinner-table,  and  confining  himself  to  fruit 
and  vegetables  only,  because,  in  those  early 
days  of  her  housekeeping,  Eve  had  no 
more  acceptable  viands  to  set  before  him. 
Milton,  indeed,  had  a  true  English  taste 
for  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  though  re 
fined  by  the  lofty  and  poetic  discipline  to 
which  he  had  subjected  himself.  It  is 
delicately  implied  in  the  refection  in  Para 
dise,  and  more  substantially,  though  still 
elegantly,  betrayed  in  the  sonnet  proposing 
to  "  Laurence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous 
son,"  a  series  of  nice  little  dinners  in 
midwinter ;  and  it  blazes  fully  out  in  that 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  529 

untasted  banquet,  which,  elaborate  as  it 
was,  Satan  tossed  up  in  a  trice  from  the 
kitchen-ranges  of  Tartarus. 

Among  this  people,  indeed,  so  wise  in 
their  generation,  dinner  has  a  kind  of  sanc 
tity  quite  independent  of  the  dishes  that 
may  be  set  upon  the  table  ;  so  that,  if  it  be 
only  a  mutton-chop,  they  treat  it  with  due 
reverence,  and  are  rewarded  with  a  degree 
of  enjoyment  which  such  reckless  devour- 
ers  as  ourselves  do  not  often  find  in  our 
richest  abundance.  It  is  good  to  see  how 
stanch  they  are  after  fifty  or  sixty  years  of 
heroic  eating,  still  relying  upon  their  di 
gestive  powers  and  indulging  a  vigorous 
appetite  ;  whereas  an  American  has  gener 
ally  lost  the  one  and  learned  to  distrust  the 
other  long  before  reaching  the  earliest  de 
cline  of  life  ;  and  thenceforward  he  makes 
little  account  of  his  dinner,  and  dines  at 
his  peril,  if  at  all.  I  know  not  whether  my 
countrymen  will  allow  me  to  tell  them, 
though  I  think  it  scarcely  too  much  to  af 
firm,  that  on  this  side  of  the  water  people 
never  dine.  At  any  rate,  abundantly  as 
Nature  has  provided  us  with  most  of  the 
material  requisites,  the  highest  possible 
dinner  has  never  yet  been  eaten  in  Amer 
ica.  It  is  the  consummate  flower  of  civil- 


53O  OUR   OLD   HOME 

ization  and  refinement ;  and  our  inability 
to  produce  it,  or  to  appreciate  its  admirable 
beauty  if  a  happy  inspiration  should  bring 
it  into  bloom,  marks  fatally  the  limit  of 
culture  which  we  have  attained. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that 
the  mob  of  cultivated  Englishmen  know 
how  to  dine  in  this  elevated  sense.  The 
unpolishable  ruggedness  of  the  national 
character  is  still  an  impediment  to  them, 
even  in  that  particular  line  where  they  are 
best  qualified  to  excel.  Though  often  pres 
ent  at  good  men's  feasts,  I  remember  only  a 
single  dinner,  which,  while  lamentably  con 
scious  that  many  of  its  higher  excellences 
were  thrown  away  upon  me,  I  yet  could 
feel  to  be  a  perfect  work  of  art.  It  could 
not,  without  unpardonable  coarseness,  be 
styled  a  matter  of  animal  enjoyment,  be 
cause,  out  of  the  very  perfection  of  that 
lower  bliss,  there  had  arisen  a  dream-like 
development  of  spiritual  happiness.  As  in 
the  masterpieces  of  painting  and  poetry, 
there  was  a  something  intangible,  a  final 
deliciousness  that  only  fluttered  about  your 
comprehension,  vanishing  whenever  you 
tried  to  detain  it,  and  compelling  you  to 
recognize  it  by  faith  rather  than  sense.  It 
seemed  as  if  a  diviner  set  of  senses  were 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  531 

requisite,  and  had  been  partly  supplied,  for 
the  special  fruition  of  this  banquet,  and 
that  the  guests  around  the  table  (only  eight 
in  number)  were  becoming  so  educated, 
polished,  and  softened,  by  the  delicate  in 
fluences  of  what  they  ate  and  drank,  as  to 
be  now  a  little  more  than  mortal  for  the 
nonce.  And  there  was  that  gentle,  deli 
cious  sadness,  too,  which  we  find  in  the 
very  summit  of  our  most  exquisite  enjoy 
ments,  and  feel  it  a  charm  beyond  all  the 
gayety  through  which  it  keeps  breathing 
its  undertone.  In  the  present  case,  it  was 
worth  a  heavier  sigh  to  reflect  that  such  a 
festal  achievement  —  the  production  of  so 
much  art,  skill,  fancy,  invention,  and  perfect 
taste  —  the  growth  of  all  the  ages,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  ripening  for  this 
hour,  since  man  first  began  to  eat  and  to 
moisten  his  food  with  wine  —  must  lavish 
its  happiness  upon  so  brief  a  moment 
when  other  beautiful  things  can  be  made  a 
joy  forever.  Yet  a  dinner  like  this  is  no 
better  than  we  can  get,  any  day,  at  the 
rejuvenescent  Cornhill  Coffee-house,  un 
less  the  whole  man,  with  soul,  intellect, 
and  stomach,  is  ready  to  appreciate  it,  and 
unless,  moreover,  there  is  such  a  harmony 
ir>  all  the  circumstances  and  accompani- 


532  OUR   OLD  HOME 

ments,  and  especially  such  a  pitch  of  well- 
according  minds,  that  nothing  shall  jar 
rudely  against  the  guest's  thoroughly  awak 
ened  sensibilities.  The  world,  and  espe 
cially  our  part  of  it,  being  the  rough,  ill- 
assorted,  and  tumultuous  place  we  find  it, 
a  beefsteak  is  about  as  good  as  any  other 
dinner. 

The  foregoing  reminiscence,  however, 
has  drawn  me  aside  from  the  main  object 
of  my  sketch,  in  which  I  purposed  to  give 
a  slight  idea  of  those  public,  or  partially 
public  banquets,  the  custom  of  which  so 
thoroughly  prevails  among  the  English 
people,  that  nothing  is  ever  decided  upon, 
in  matters  of  peace  and  war,  until  they 
have  chewed  upon  it  in  the  shape  of  roast- 
beef,  and  talked  it  fully  over  in  their  cups. 
Nor  are  these  festivities  merely  occasional, 
but  of  stated  recurrence  in  all  considerable 
municipalities  and  associated  bodies.  The 
most  ancient  times  appear  to  have  been  as 
familiar  with  them  as  the  Englishmen  of 
to-day.  In  many  of  the  old  English  towns, 
you  find  some  stately  Gothic  hall  or  cham 
ber  in  which  the  Mayor  and  other  authorities 
of  the  place  have  long  held  their  sessions  ; 
and  always,  in  convenient  contiguity,  there 
is  a  dusky  kitchen,  with  an  immense  fire- 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  533 

place  where  an  ox  might  lie  roasting  at  his 
ease,  though  the  less  gigantic  scale  of  mod 
ern  cookery  may  now  have  permitted  the 
cobwebs  to  gather  in  its  chimney.  St. 
Mary's  Hall,  in  Coventry,  is  so  good  a 
specimen  of  an  ancient  banqueting-room, 
that  perhaps  I  may  profitably  devote  a  page 
or  two  to  the  description  of  it. 

In  a  narrow  street  opposite  to  St.  Mi 
chael's  Church,  one  of  the  three  famous 
spires  of  Coventry,  you  behold  a  mediaeval 
edifice,  in  the  basement  of  which  is  such  a 
venerable  and  now  deserted  kitchen  as  I 
have  above  alluded  to,  and,  on  the  same 
level,  a  cellar,  with  low  stone  pillars  and  in 
tersecting  arches,  like  the  crypt  of  a  cathe 
dral.  Passing  up  a  well-worn  staircase,  the 
oaken  balustrade  of  which  is  as  black  as 
ebony,  you  enter  the  fine  old  hall,  some 
sixty  feet  in  length,  and  broad  and  lofty  in 
proportion.  It  is  lighted  by  six  windows 
of  modern  stained  glass,  on  one  side,  and 
by  the  immense  and  magnificent  arch  of 
another  window  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room,  its  rich  and  ancient  panes  consti 
tuting  a  genuine  historical  piece,  in  which 
are  represented  some  of  the  kingly  person 
ages  of  old  times,  with  their  heraldic  bla 
zonries.  Notwithstanding  the  colored  light 


534  OUR  OLD  HOME 

thus  thrown  into  the  hall,  and  though  it 
was  noonday  when  I  last  saw  it,  the  panel 
ing  of  black-oak,  and  some  faded  tapestry 
that  hung  round  the  walls,  together  with 
the  cloudy  vault  of  the  roof  above,  made  a 
gloom,  which  the  richness  only  illuminated 
into  more  appreciable  effect.  The  tapes 
try  is  wrought  with  figures  in  the  dress 
of  Henry  VI. 's  time  (which  is  the  date  of 
the  hall),  and  is  regarded  by  antiquaries  as 
authentic  evidence  both  for  the  costume 
of  that  epoch,  and,  I  believe,  for  the  actual 
portraiture  of  men  known  in  history.  They 
are  as  colorless  as  ghosts,  however,  and 
vanish  drearily  into  the  old  stitch-work  of 
their  substance  when  you  try  to  make  them 
out.  Coats  of  arms  were  formerly  embla 
zoned  all  round  the  hall,  but  have  been  al 
most  rubbed  out  by  people  hanging  their 
overcoats  against  them,  or  by  women  with 
dishclouts  and  scrubbing-brushes,  obliter 
ating  hereditary  glories  in  their  blind  hos 
tility  to  dust  and  spiders'  webs.  Full-length 
portraits  of  several  English  kings,  Charles 
II.  being  the  earliest,  hang  on  the  walls ; 
and  on  the  dais,  or  elevated  part  of  the 
floor,  stands  an  antique  chair  of  state, 
which  several  royal  characters  are  tradi 
tionally  said  to  have  occupied  while  feast- 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  535 

ing  here  with  their  loyal  subjects  of  Cov 
entry.  It  is  roomy  enough  for  a  person  of 
kingly  bulk,  or  even  two  such,  but  angular 
and  uncomfortable,  reminding  me  of  the 
oaken  settles  which  used  to  be  seen  in  old- 
fashioned  New  England  kitchens. 

Overhead,  supported  by  a  self-sustaining 
power,  without  the  aid  of  a  single  pillar,  is 
the  original  ceiling  of  oak,  precisely  simi 
lar  in  shape  to  the  roof  of  a  barn,  with  all 
the  beams  and  rafters  plainly  to  be  seen. 
At  the  remote  height  of  sixty  feet,  you 
hardly  discern  that  they  are  carved  with 
figures  of  angels,  and  doubtless  many  other 
devices,  of  which  the  admirable  Gothic  art 
is  wasted  in  the  duskiness  that  has  so  long 
been  brooding  there.  Over  the  entrance 
of  the  hall,  opposite  the  great  arched  win 
dow,  the  party-colored  radiance  of  which 
glimmers  faintly  through  the  interval,  is  a 
gallery  for  minstrels  ;  and  a  rowr  of  ancient 
suits  of  armor  is  suspended  from  its  balus 
trade.  It  impresses  me,  too  (for,  having 
gone  so  far,  I  would  fain  leave  nothing 
untouched  upon),  that  I  remember,  some 
where  about  these  venerable  precincts,  a 
picture  of  the  Countess  Godiva  on  horse 
back,  in  which  the  artist  has  been  so  nig 
gardly  of  that  illustrious  lady's  hair,  that, 


536  OUR   OLD  HOME 

if  she  had  no  ampler  garniture,  there  was 
certainly  much  need  for  the  good  people 
of  Coventry  to  shut  their  eyes.  After  all 
my  pains,  I  fear  that  I  have  made  but  a 
poor  hand  at  the  description,  as  regards  a 
transference  of  the  scene  from  my  own 
mind  to  the  reader's.  It  gave  me  a  most 
vivid  idea  of  antiquity  that  had  been  very 
little  tampered  with  ;  insomuch  that,  if  a 
group  of  steel-clad  knights  had  come  clank 
ing  through  the  doorway,  and  a  bearded  and 
beruffed  old  figure  had  handed  in  a  stately 
dame,  rustling  in  gorgeous  robes  of  a  long- 
forgotten  fashion,  unveiling  a  face  of  beauty 
somewhat  tarnished  in  the  mouldy  tomb, 
yet  stepping  majestically  to  the  trill  of 
harp  and  viol  from  the  minstrels'  gallery, 
while  the  rusty  armor  responded  with  a 
hollow  ringing  sound  beneath,  —  why,  I 
should  have  felt  that  these  shadows,  once 
so  familiar  with  the  spot,  had  a  better  right 
in  St.  Mary's  Hall  than  I,  a  stranger  from 
a  far  country  which  has  no  Past.  But  the 
moral  of  the  foregoing  description  is  to 
show  how  tenaciously  this  love  of  pompous 
dinners,  this  reverence  for  dinner  as  a 
sacred  institution,  has  caught  hold  of  the 
English  character ;  since,  from  the  earliest 
recognizable  period,  we  find  them  building 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  537 

their    civic   banqueting  -  halls   as   magnifi 
cently  as  their  palaces  or  cathedrals. 

I  know  not  whether  the  hall  just  de 
scribed  is  now  used  for  festive  purposes, 
but  others  of  similar  antiquity  and  splen 
dor  still  are.  For  example,  there  is  Bar 
ber  Surgeons'  Hall,  in  London,  a  very  fine 
old  room,  adorned  with  admirably  carved 
wood-work  on  the  ceiling  and  walls.  It  is 
also  enriched  with  Holbein's  masterpiece, 
representing  a  grave  assemblage  of  barbers 
and  surgeons,  all  portraits  (with  such  ex 
tensive  beards  that  methinks  one  half  of 
the  company  might  have  been  profitably 
occupied  in  trimming  the  other),  kneeling 
before  King  Henry  VIII.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
is  said  to  hr.ve  offered  a  thousand  pounds 
for  the  liberty  of  cutting  out  one  of  the 
heads  from  this  picture,  he  conditioning  to 
have  a  perfect  facsimile  painted  in.1  The 

1  In  this  room  hangs  the  most  valuable  picture  by 
Holbein  now  in  existence,  representing  the  company  of 
Barber  Surgeons  kneeling  before  Henry  VIII.,  and  re 
ceiving  their  charter  from  his  hands.  The  picture  is 
about  six  feet  square.  The  king  is  dressed  in  scarlet, 
and  quite  fulfills  one's  idea  of  his  aspect.  The  Barber- 
Surgeons,  all  portraits,  are  an  assemblage  of  grave-look 
ing  personages,  in  dark  costumes.  The  company  has 
refused  five  thousand  pounds  for  this  unique  picture; 
and  the  keeper  of  the  Hall  told  me  that  Sir  Robert  Peel 
had  offered  a  thousand  pounds  for  liberty  to  take  out 


538  OUR   OLD  HOME 

room  has  many  other  pictures  of  distin 
guished  members  of  the  company  in  long- 
past  times,  and  of  some  of  the  monarchs 
and  statesmen  of  England,  all  darkened  with 
age,  but  darkened  into  such  ripe  magnifi 
cence  as  only  age  could  bestow.  It  is  not 
my  design  to  inflict  any  more  specimens  of 
ancient  hall-painting  on  the  reader ;  but  it 
may  be  worth  while  to  touch  upon  other 
modes  of  stateliness  that  still  survive  in 
these  time-honored  civic  feasts,  where  there 
appears  to  be  a  singular  assumption  of  dig 
nity  and  solemn  pomp  by  respectable  citi 
zens  who  would  never  dream  of  claiming 
any  privilege  of  rank  outside  of  their  own 
sphere.  Thus,  I  saw  two  caps  of  state 
for  the  warden  and  junior  warden  of  the 
company,  caps  of  silver  (real  coronets  or 
crowns,  indeed,  for  these  city  -  grandees) 
wrought  in  open-work  and  lined  with  crim 
son  velvet.  In  a  strong- closet,  opening 
from  the  hall,  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
rich  plate  to  furnish  forth  the  banquet- 
table,  comprising  hundreds  of  forks  and 
spoons,  a  vast  silver  punch-bowl,  the  gift 

only  one  of  the  heads,  that  of  a  person  named  Penn,  he 
Conditioning  to  have  a  perfect  facsimile  painted  in.  I 
did  not  see  any  merit  in  this  head  over  the  others. — 

II.  200. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  539 

of  some  jolly  king  or  other,  and,  besides 
a  multitude  of  less  noticeable  vessels,  two 
loving  -  cups,  very  elaborately  wrought  in 
silver  gilt,  one  presented  by  Henry  VIII., 
the  other  by  Charles  II.  These  cups,  in 
cluding  the  covers  and  pedestals,  are  very 
large  and  weighty,  although  the  bowl -part 
would  hardly  contain  more  than  half  a  pint 
of  wine,  which,  when  the  custom  was  first 
established,  each  guest  was  probably  ex 
pected  to  drink  off  at  a  draught.  In  pass 
ing  them  from  hand  to  hand  adown  a  long 
table  of  compotators,  there  is  a  peculiar 
ceremony  which  I  may  hereafter  have  oc 
casion  to  describe.  Meanwhile,  if  I  might 
assume  such  a  liberty,  I  should  be  glad  to 
invite  the  reader  to  the  official  dinner-table 
of  his  Worship,  the  Mayor,  at  a  large  Eng 
lish  seaport  where  I  spent  several  years. 

The  Mayor's  dinner  -  parties  occur  as 
often  as  once  a  fortnight,  and,  inviting  his 
guests  by  fifty  or  sixty  at  a  time,  his  Wor 
ship  probably  assembles  at  his  board  most 
of  the  eminent  citizens  and  distinguished 
personages  of  the  town  and  neighborhood 
more  than  once  during  his  year's  incum 
bency,  and  very  much,  no  doubt,  to  the 
promotion  of  good  feeling  among  individ 
uals  of  opposite  parties  and  diverse  pursuits 


540  OUR  OLD  HOME 

in  life.  A  miscellaneous  party  of  English 
men  can  always  find  more  comfortable 
ground  to  meet  upon  than  as  many  Ameri 
cans,  their  differences  of  opinion  being 
incomparably  less  radical  than  ours,  and  it 
being  the  sincerest  wish  of  all  their  hearts, 
whether  they  call  themselves  Liberals  or 
what  not,  that  nothing  in  this  world  shall 
ever  be  greatly  altered  from  what  it  has 
been  and  is.  Thus  there  is  seldom  such  a 
virulence  of  political  hostility  that  it  may 
not  be  dissolved  in  a  glass  or  two  of  wine, 
without  making  the  good  liquor  any  more 
dry  or  bitter  than  accords  with  English 
taste. 

The  first  dinner  of  this  kind  at  which  I 
had  the  honor  to  be  present  took  place 
during  assize-time,  and  included  among  the 
guests  the  judges  and  the  prominent  mem 
bers  of  the  bar.  Reaching  the  Town  Hall 
at  seven  o'clock,  I  communicated  my  name 
to  one  of  several  splendidly  dressed  foot 
men,  and  he  repeated  it  to  another  on  the 
first  staircase,  by  whom  it  was  passed  to  a 
third,  and  thence  to  a  fourth  at  the  door  of 
the  reception-room,  losing  all  resemblance 
to  the  original  sound  in  the  course  of  these 
transmissions  ;  so  that  I  had  the  advantage 
of  making  my  entrance  in  the  character  of 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  541 

a  stranger,  not  only  to  the  whole  company, 
but  to  myself  as  well.  His  Worship,  how 
ever,  kindly  recognized  me,  and  put  me  on 
speaking- terms  with  two  or  three  gentle 
men,  whom  I  found  very  affable,  and  all 
the  more  hospitably  attentive  on  the  score 
of  my  nationality.  It  is  very  singular  how 
kind  an  Englishman  will  almost  invariably 
be  to  an  individual  American,  without  ever 
bating  a  jot  of  his  prejudice  against  the 
American  character  in  the  lump.  My  new 
acquaintances  took  evident  pains  to  put  me 
at  my  ease ;  and,  in  requital  of  their  good 
nature,  I  soon  began  to  look  round  at 
the  general  company  in  a  critical  spirit, 
making  my  crude  observations  apart,  and 
drawing  silent  inferences,  of  the  correct 
ness  of  which  I  should  not  have  been  half 
so  well  satisfied  a  year  afterwards  as  at 
that  moment. 

There  were  two  judges  present,  a  good 
many  lawyers,  and  a  few  officers  of  the 
army  in  uniform.  The  other  guests  seemed 
to  be  principally  of  the  mercantile  class, 
and  among  them  was  a  ship-owner  from 
Nova  Scotia,  with  whom  I  coalesced  a  little, 
inasmuch  as  we  were  born  with  the  same 
sky  over  our  heads,  and  an  unbroken  con 
tinuity  of  soil  between  his  abode  and  mine. 


542  OUR   OLD   HOME 

There  was  one  old  gentleman,  whose  char 
acter  I  never  made  out,  with  powdered  hair, 
clad  in  black  breeches  and  silk  stockings, 
and  wearing  a  rapier  at  his  side ;  otherwise, 
with  the  exception  of  the  military  uniforms, 
there  was  little  or  no  pretense  of  official 
costume.  It  being  the  first  considerable 
assemblage  of  Englishmen  that  I  had  seen, 
my  honest  impression  about  them  was  that 
they  were  a  heavy  and  homely  set  of  people, 
with  a  remarkable  roughness  of  aspect  and 
behavior,  not  repulsive,  but  beneath  which 
it  required  more  familiarity  with  the  na 
tional  character  than  I  then  possessed 
always  to  detect  the  good  breeding  of  a 
gentleman.  Being  generally  middle  -  aged, 
or  still  further  advanced,  they  were  by  no 
means  graceful  in  figure  ;  for  the  comeli 
ness  of  the  youthful  Englishman  rapidly 
diminishes  with  years,  his  body  appearing 
to  grow  longer,  his  legs  to  abbreviate  them 
selves,  and  his  stomach  to  assume  the  dig 
nified  prominence  which  justly  belongs  to 
that  metropolis  of  his  system.  His  face 
(what  with  the  acridity  of  the  atmosphere, 
ale  at  lunch,  wine  at  dinner,  and  a  well- 
digested  abundance  of  succulent  food)  gets 
red  and  mottled,  and  develops  at  least  one 
additional  chin,  with  a  promise  of  more ; 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  543 

so  that,  finally,  a  stranger  recognizes  his 
animal  part  at  the  most  superficial  glance, 
but  must  take  time  and  a  little  pains  to 
discover  the  intellectual.  Comparing  him 
with  an  American,  I  really  thought  that 
our  national  paleness  and  lean  habit  of 
flesh  gave  us  greatly  the  advantage  in  an 
aesthetic  point  of  view.  It  seemed  to  me, 
moreover,  that  the  English  tailor  had  not 
done  so  much  as  he  might  and  ought  for 
these  heavy  figures,  but  had  gone  on  will 
fully  exaggerating  their  uncouthness  by  the 
roominess  of  their  garments  ;  he  had  evi 
dently  no  idea  of  accuracy  of  fit,  and  smart 
ness  was  entirely  out  of  his  line.  But,  to 
be  quite  open  with  the  reader,  I  afterwards 
learned  to  think  that  this  aforesaid  tailor 
has  a  deeper  art  than  his  brethren  among 
ourselves,  knowing  how  to  dress  his  cus 
tomers  with  such  individual  propriety  that 
they  look  as  if  they  were  born  in  their 
clothes,  the  fit  being  to  the  character  rather 
than  the  form.  If  you  make  an  English 
man  smart  (unless  he  be  a  very  exceptional 
one,  of  whom  I  have  seen  a  few),  you  make 
him  a  monster;  his  best  aspect  is  that  of 
ponderous  respectability. 

To  make  an  end  of  these  first  impres 
sions,  I  fancied  that  not  merely  the  Suffolk 


544  OUR  OLD  HOME 

bar,  but  the  bar  of  any  inland  county  in 
New  England,  might  show  a  set  of  thin- 
visaged  men  looking  wretchedly  worn,  sal 
low,  deeply  wrinkled  across  the  forehead, 
and  grimly  furrowed  about  the  mouth,  with 
whom  these  heavy  -  cheeked  English  law 
yers,  slow -paced  and  fat-witted  as  they 
must  needs  be,  would  stand  very  little 
chance  in  a  professional  contest.  How 
that  matter  might  turn  out,  I  am  unquali 
fied  to  decide.  But  I  state  these  results 
of  my  earliest  glimpses  at  Englishmen,  not 
for  what  they,  are  worth,  but  because  I 
ultimately  gave  them  up  as  worth  little  or 
nothing.  In  course  of  time,  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  Englishmen  of  all  ages  are 
a  rather  good-looking  people,  dress  in  ad 
mirable  taste  from  their  own  point  of  view, 
and,  under  a  surface  never  silken  to  the 
touch,  have  a  refinement  of  manners  too 
thorough  and  genuine  to  be  thought  of  as 
a  separate  endowment,  —  that  is  to  say,  if 
the  individual  himself  be  a  man  of  station, 
and  has  had  gentlemen  for  his  father  and 
grandfather.  The  sturdy  Anglo  -  Saxon 
nature  does  not  refine  itself  short  of  the 
third  generation.  The  tradesmen,  too,  and 
all  other  classes,  have  their  own  proprieties. 
The  only  value  of  my  criticisms,  there- 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  545 

fore,  lay  in  their  exemplifying  the  proneness 
of  a  traveler  to  measure  one  people  by  the 
distinctive  characteristics  of  another,  —  as 
English  writers  invariably  measure  us,  and 
take  upon  themselves  to  be  disgusted  ac 
cordingly,  instead  of  trying  to  find  out  some 
principle  of  beauty  with  which  we  may  be 
in  conformity. 

In  due  time  we  were  summoned  to  the 
table,  and  went  thither  in  no  solemn  pro 
cession,  but  with  a  good  deal  of  jostling, 
thrusting  behind,  and  scrambling  for  places 
when  we  reached  our  destination.  The 
legal  gentlemen,  I  suspect,  were  responsi 
ble  for  this  indecorous  zeal,  which  I  never 
afterwards  remarked  in  a  similar  party. 
The  dining-hall  was  of  noble  size,  and,  like 
the  other  rooms  of  the  suite,  was  gorgeously 
painted  and  gilded  and  brilliantly  illumi 
nated.  There  was  a  splendid  table-service, 
and  a  noble  array  of  footmen,  some  of 
them  in  plain  clothes,  and  others  wearing 
the  town-livery,  richly  decorated  with  gold- 
lace,  and  themselves  excellent  specimens  of 
the  blooming  young  manhood  of  Britain. 
When  we  were  fairly  seated,  it  was  cer 
tainly  an  agreeable  spectacle  to  look  up 
and  down  the  long  vista  of  earnest  faces, 
and  behold  them  so  resolute,  so  conscious 


546  OUR   OLD  HOME 

that  there  was  an  important  business  in 
hand,  and  so  determined  to  be  equal  to 
the  occasion.  Indeed,  Englishman  or  not, 
I  hardly  know  what  can  be  prettier  than 
a  snow-white  tablecloth,  a  huge  heap  of 
flowers  as  a  central  decoration,  bright  sil 
ver,  rich  china,  crystal  glasses,  decanters 
of  Sherry  at  due  intervals,  a  French  roll 
and  an  artistically  folded  napkin  at  each 
plate,  all  that  airy  portion  of  a  banquet,  in 
short,  that  comes  before  the  first  mouth 
ful,  the  whole  illuminated  by  a  blaze  of 
artificial  light,  without  which  a  dinner  of 
made-dishes  looks  spectral,  and  the  simplest 
viands  are  the  best.  Printed  bills  -  of  -  fare 
were  distributed,  representing  an  abundant 
feast,  no  part  of  which  appeared  on  the 
table  until  called  for  in  separate  plates.  I 
have  entirely  forgotten  what  it  was,  but 
deem  it  no  great  matter,  inasmuch  as  there 
is  a  pervading  commonplace  and  identical- 
ness  in  the  composition  of  extensive  din 
ners,  on  account  of  the  impossibility  of 
supplying  a  hundred  guests  with  anything 
particularly  delicate  or  rare.  It  was  sug 
gested  to  me  that  certain  juicy  old  gentle 
men  had  a  private  understanding  what  to 
call  for,  and  that  it  would  be  good  policy 
in  a  stranger  to  follow  in  their  footsteps 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  547 

through  the  feast.  I  did  not  care  to  do  so, 
however,  because,  like  Sancho  Panza's  dip 
out  of  Camacho's  caldron,  any  sort  of  pot- 
luck  at  such  a  table  would  be  sure  to  suit 
my  purpose ;  so  I  chose  a  dish  or  two  on 
my  own  judgment,  and,  getting  through 
my  labors  betimes,  had  great  pleasure  in 
seeing  the  Englishmen  toil  onward  to  the 
end. 

They  drank  rather  copiously,  too,  though 
wisely ;  for  I  observed  that  they  seldom 
took  Hock,  and  let  the  Champagne  bubble 
slowly  away  out  of  the  goblet,  solacing 
themselves  with  Sherry,  but  tasting  it 
warily  before  bestowing  their  final  confi 
dence.  Their  taste  in  wines,  however,  did 
not  seem  so  exquisite,  and  certainly  was 
not  so  various,  as  that  to  which  many 
Americans  pretend.  This  foppery  of  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  rare  vintages 
does  not  suit  a  sensible  Englishman,  as 
he  is  very  much  in  earnest  about  his 
wines,  and  adopts  one  or  two  as  his  life 
long  friends,  seldom  exchanging  them  for 
any  Delilahs  of  a  moment,  and  reaping  the 
reward  of  his  constancy  in  an  unimpaired 
stomach,  and  only  so  much  gout  as  he 
deems  wholesome  and  desirable.  Know 
ing  well  the  measure  of  his  powers,  he  is 


548  OUR   OLD  HOME 

not  apt  to  fill  his  glass  too  often.  Society, 
indeed,  would  hardly  tolerate  habitual  im 
prudences  of  that  kind,  though,  in  my  opin 
ion,  the  Englishmen  now  upon  the  stage 
could  carry  off  their  three  bottles,  at  need, 
with  as  steady  a  gait  as  any  of  their  fore 
fathers.  It  is  not  so  very  long  since  the 
three  -  bottle  heroes  sank  finally  under  the 
table.  It  may  be  (at  least,  I  should  be 
glad  if  it  were  true)  that  there  was  an  oc 
cult  sympathy  between  our  temperance 
reform,  now  somewhat  in  abeyance,  and 
the  almost  simultaneous  disappearance  of 
hard  -  drinking  among  the  respectable 
classes  in  England.  I  remember  a  middle- 
aged  gentleman  telling  me  (in  illustration 
of  the  very  slight  importance  attached  to 
breaches  of  temperance  within  the  mem 
ory  of  men  not  yet  old)  that  he  'had  seen 
a  certain  magistrate,  Sir  John  Linkwater, 
or  Drinkwater,  —  but  I  think  the  jolly  old 
knight  could  hardly  have  staggered  under 
so  perverse  a  misnomer  as  this  last,  — 
while  sitting  on  the  magisterial  bench,  pull 
out  a  crown-piece  and  hand  it  to  the  clerk. 
"  Mr.  Clerk,"  said  Sir  John,  as  if  it  were 
the  most  indifferent  fact  in  the  world,  "  I 
was  drunk  last  night.  There  are  my  five 
shillings.'* 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  549 

During  the  dinner,  I  had  a  good  deal  of 
pleasant  conversation  with  the  gentlemen 
on  either  side  of  me.  One  of  them,  a  law 
yer,  expatiated  with  great  unction  on  the 
social  standing  of  the  judges.  Represent 
ing  the  dignity  and  authority  of  the  Crown, 
they  take  precedence,  during  assize-time, 
of  the  highest  military  men  in  the  king 
dom,  of  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  coun 
ty,  of  the  Archbishops,  of  the  royal  Dukes, 
and  even  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  For 
the  nonce,  they  are  the  greatest  men  in 
England.  With  a  glow  of  professional 
complacency  that  amounted  to  enthusiasm, 
my  friend  assured  me,  that,  in  case  of  a 
royal  dinner,  a  judge,  if  actually  holding 
an  assize,  would  be  expected  to  offer  his 
arm  and  take  the  Queen  herself  to  the 
table.  Happening  to  be  in  company  with 
some  of  these  elevated  personages,  on  sub 
sequent  occasions,  it  appeared  to  me  that 
the  judges  are  fully  conscious  of  their 
paramount  claims  to  respect,  and  take 
rather  more  pains  to  impress  them  on 
their  ceremonial  inferiors  than  men  of 
high  hereditary  rank  are  apt  to  do.  Bish 
ops,  if  it  be  not  irreverent  to  say  so,  are 
sometimes  marked  by  a  similar  character 
istic.  Dignified  position  is  so  sweet  to  an 


550 


OUR   OLD   HOME 


Englishman,  that  he  needs  to  be  born  in  it, 
and  to  feel  it  thoroughly  incorporated  with 
his  nature  from  its  original  germ,  in  order 
to  keep  him  from  flaunting  it  obtrusively 
in  the  faces  of  innocent  by-standers. 

My  companion  on  the  other  side  was  a 
thick-set,  middle-aged  man,  uncouth  in  man 
ners,  and  ugly  where  none  were  handsome, 
with  a  dark,  roughly  hewn  visage,  that 
looked  grim  in  repose,  and  seemed  to  hold 
within  itself  the  machinery  of  a  very  ter 
rific  frown.  He  ate  with  resolute  appetite, 
and  let  slip  few  opportunities  of  imbibing 
whatever  liquids  happened  to  be  passing 
by.  I  was  meditating  in  what  way  this 
grisly  featured  table-fellow  might  most 
safely  be  accosted,  when  he  turned  to  me 
with  a  surly  sort  of  kindness,  and  invited 
me  to  take  a  glass  of  wine.  We  then 
began  a  conversation  that  abounded,  on  his 
part,  with  sturdy  sense,  and,  somehow  or 
other,  brought  me  closer  to  him  than  I 
had  yet  stood  to  an  Englishman.  I  should 
hardly  have  taken  him  to  be  an  educated 
man,  certainly  not  a  scholar  of  accurate 
training;  and  yet  he  seemed  to  have  all 
the  resources  of  education  and  trained  in 
tellectual  power  at  command.  My  fresh 
Americanism,  and  watchful  observation  of 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  551 

English  characteristics,  appeared  either  to 
interest  or  amuse  him,  or  perhaps  both. 
Under  the  mollifying  influences  of  abun 
dance  of  meat  and  drink,  he  grew  very 
gracious  (not  that  I  ought  to  use  such  a 
phrase  to  describe  his  evidently  genuine 
good-will),  and  by  and  by  expressed  a  wish 
for  further  acquaintance,  asking  me  to  call 
at  his  rooms  in  London  and  inquire  for 
Sergeant  Wilkins,  —  throwing  out  the  name 
forcibly,  as  if  he  had  no  occasion  to  be 
ashamed  of  it.  I  remembered  Dean  Swift's 
retort  to  Sergeant  Bettesworth  on  a  similar 
announcement, — "Of  what  regiment,  pray, 
sir?"  —  and  fancied  that  the  same  question 
might  not  have  been  quite  amiss,  if  applied 
to  the  rugged  individual  at  my  side.  But 
I  heard  of  him  subsequently  as  one  of  the 
prominent  men  at  the  English  bar,  a  rough 
customer,  and  a  terribly  strong  champion  in 
criminal  cases ;  and  it  caused  me  more  re 
gret  than  might  have  been  expected,  on  so 
slight  an  acquaintanceship,  when,  not  long 
afterwards,  I  saw  his  death  announced  in 
the  newspapers.  Not  rich  in  attractive 
qualities,  he  possessed,  I  think,  the  most 
attractive  one  of  all,  —  thorough  manhood. 
After  the  cloth  was  removed,  a  goodly 
group  of  decanters  were  set  before  the 


552  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Mayor,  who  sent  them  forth  on  their  out 
ward  voyage,  full  freighted  with  Port, 
Sherry,  Madeira,  and  Claret,  of  which  ex 
cellent  liquors,  methought,  the  latter  found 
least  acceptance  among  the  guests.  When 
every  man  had  filled  his  glass,  his  Worship 
stood  up  and  proposed  a  toast.  It  was,  of 
course,  "  Our  gracious  Sovereign,"  or  words 
to  that  effect ;  and  immediately  a  band  of 
musicians,  whose  preliminary  tootings  and 
thrummings  I  had  already  heard  behind 
me,  struck  up  "  God  save  the  Queen  !  "  and 
the  whole  company  rose  with  one  impulse 
to  assist  in  singing  that  famous  national 
anthem.  It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life 
that  I  had  ever  seen  a  body  of  men,  or 
even  a  single  man,  under  the  active  influ 
ence  of  the  sentiment  of  Loyalty ;  for, 
though  we  call  ourselves  loyal  to  our  coun 
try  and  institutions,  and  prove  it  by  our 
readiness  to  shed  blood  and  sacrifice  life  in 
their  behalf,  still  the  principle  is  as  cold 
and  hard,  in  an  American  bosom,  as  the 
steel  spring  that  puts  in  motion  a  powerful 
machinery.  In  the  Englishman's  system, 
a  force  similar  to  that  of  our  steel  spring 
is  generated  by  the  warm  throbbings  of 
human  hearts.  He  clothes  our  bare  ab 
straction  in  flesh  and  blood,  —  at  present, 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  553 

in  the  flesh  and  blood  of  a  woman,  —  and 
manages  to  combine  love,  awe,  and  intel 
lectual  reverence,  all  in  one  emotion,  and 
to  embody  his  mother,  his  wife,  his  chil 
dren,  the  whole  idea  of  kindred,  in  a  single 
person,  and  make  her  the  representative  of 
his  country  and  its  laws.  We  Americans 
smile  superior,  as  I  did  at  the  Mayor's 
table ;  and  yet,  I  fancy,  we  lose  some  very 
agreeable  titillations  of  the  heart  in  conse 
quence  of  our  proud  prerogative  of  caring 
no  more  about  our  President  than  for  a 
man  of  straw,  or  a  stuffed  scarecrow  strad 
dling  in  a  cornfield. 

But,  to  say  the  truth,  the  spectacle 
struck  me  rather  ludicrously,  to  see  this 
party  of  stout  middle-aged  and  elderly  gen 
tlemen,  in  the  fullness  of  meat  and  drink, 
their  ample  and  ruddy  faces  glistening  with 
wine,  perspiration,  and  enthusiasm,  rum 
bling  out  those  strange  old  stanzas  from  tht 
very  bottom  of  their  hearts  and  stomachs, 
which  two  organs,  in  the  English  interior 
arrangement,  lie  closer  together  than  in 
ours.  The  song  seemed  to  me  the  rudest 
old  ditty  in  the  world ;  but  I  could  not  won 
der  at  its  universal  acceptance  and  indestruc 
tible  popularity,  considering  how  inimitably 
it  expresses  the  national  faith  and  feeling 


554  OUR  OLD  HOME 

as  regards  the  inevitable  righteousness  of 
England,  the  Almighty's  consequent  re 
spect  and  partiality  for  that  redoubtable 
little  island,  and  his  presumed  readiness  to 
strengthen  its  defense  against  the  contu 
macious  wickedness  and  knavery  of  all 
other  principalities  or  republics.  Tenny 
son  himself,  though  evidently  English  to 
the  very  last  prejudice,  could  riot  write  half 
so  good  a  song  for  the  purpose.  Finding 
that  the  entire  dinner-table  struck  in,  with 
voices  of  every  pitch  between  rolling  thun 
der  and  the  squeak  of  a  cart-wheel,  and  that 
the  strain  was  not  of  such  delicacy  as  to  be 
much  hurt  by  the  harshest  of  them,  I  de 
termined  to  lend  my  own  assistance  in 
swelling  the  triumphant  roar.  It  seemed 
but  a  proper  courtesy  to  the  first  Lady  in 
the  land,  whose  guest,  in  the  largest  sense, 
I  might  consider  myself.  Accordingly,  my 
first  tuneful  efforts  (and  probably  my  last, 
for  I  purpose  not  to  sing  any  more,  unless 
it  be  "  Hail  Columbia "  on  the  restoration 
of  the  Union)  were  poured  freely  forth  in 
honor  of  Queen  Victoria.  The  Sergeant 
smiled  like  the  carved  head  of  a  Swiss 
nutcracker,  and  the  other  gentlemen  in 
my  neighborhood,  by  nods  and  gestures, 
evinced  grave  approbation  of  so  suitable  a 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  555 

tribute  to  English  superiority ;  and  we  fin 
ished  our  stave  and  sat  down  in  an  ex 
tremely  happy  frame  of  mind. 

Other  toasts  followed  in  honor  of  the 
great  institutions  and  interests  of  the  coun 
try,  and  speeches  in  response  to  each  were 
made  by  individuals  whom  the  Mayor  des 
ignated  or  the  company  called  for.  None 
of  them  impressed  me  with  a  very  high 
idea  of  English  postprandial  oratory.  It 
is  inconceivable,  indeed,  what  ragged  and 
shapeless  utterances  most  Englishmen  are 
satisfied  to  give  vent  to,  without  attempt 
ing  anything  like  artistic  shape,  but  clap 
ping  on  a  patch  here  and  another  there, 
and  ultimately  getting  out  what  they  want 
to  say,  and  generally  with  a  result  of  suffi 
ciently  good  sense,  but  in  some  such  dis 
organized  mass  as  if  they  had  thrown  it  up 
rather  than  spoken  it.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  this  was  almost  as  much  by  choice 
as  necessity.  An  Englishman,  ambitious 
of  public  favor,  should  not  be  too  smooth. 
If  an  orator  is  glib,  his  countrymen  dis- 
trust  him.  They  dislike  smartness.  The 
stronger  and  heavier  his  thoughts,  the 
better,  provided  there  be  an  element  of 
commonplace  running  through  them ;  and 
any  rough,  yet  never  vulgar,  force  of  ex- 


556  OUR   OLD  HOME 

pression,  such  as  would  knock  an  opponent 
down  if  it  hit  him,  only  it  must  not  be  too 
personal,  is  altogether  to  their  taste  ;  but  a 
studied  neatness  of  language,  or  other  such 
superficial  graces,  they  cannot  abide.  They 
do  not  often  permit  a  man  to  make  himself 
a  fine  orator  of  malice  aforethought,  that  is, 
unless  he  be  a  nobleman  (as,  for  example, 
Lord  Stanley,  of  the  Derby  family),  who, 
as  an  hereditary  legislator  and  necessarily 
a  public  speaker,  is  bound  to  remedy  a  poor 
natural  delivery  in  the  best  way  he  can. 
On  the  whole,  I  partly  agree  with  them, 
and,  if  I  cared  for  any  oratory  whatever, 
should  be  as  likely  to  applaud  theirs  as  our 
own.  When  an  English  speaker  sits  down, 
you  feel  that  you  have  been  listening  to 
a  real  man,  and  not  to  an  actor  ;  his  senti 
ments  have  a  wholesome  earth -smell  in 
them,  though,  very  likely,  this  apparent 
naturalness  is  as  much  an  art  as  what  we 
expend  in  rounding  a  sentence  or  elabora 
ting  a  peroration. 

It  is  one  good  effect  of  this  inartificial 
style,  that  nobody  in  England  seems  to 
feel  any  shyness  about  shoveling  the  un- 
trimmed  and  untrimmable  ideas  out  of  his 
mind  for  the  benefit  of  an  audience.  At 
least,  nobody  did  on  the  occasion  now  in 


CIVIC   BANQUETS  557 

hand,  except  a  poor  little  Major  of  Artil 
lery,  who  responded  for  the  Army  in  a 
thin,  quavering  voice,  with  a  terribly  hesi 
tating  trickle  of  fragmentary  ideas,  and,  I 
question  not,  would  rather  have  been  bayo 
neted  in  front  of  his  batteries  than  to  have 
said  a  word.  Not  his  own  mouth,  but 
the  cannon's,  was  this  poor  Major's  proper 
organ  of  utterance. 

While  I  was  thus  amiably  occupied  in 
criticising  my  fellow  -  guests,  the  Mayor 
had  got  up  to  propose  another  toast ;  and 
listening  rather  inattentively  to  the  first 
sentence  or  two,  I  soon  became  sensible  of 
a  drift  in  his  Worship's  remarks  that  made 
me  glance  apprehensively  towards  Sergeant 
Wilkins.  "Yes,  "  grumbled  that  gruff  per 
sonage,  shoving  a  decanter  of  Port  towards 
me,  "  it  is  your  turn  next ;  "  and  seeing  in 
my  face,  I  suppose,  the  consternation  of  a 
wholly  un practiced  orator,  he  kindly  added, 
"  It  is  nothing.  A  mere  acknowledgment 
will  answer  the  purpose.  The  less  you 
say,  the  better  they  will  like  it."  That 
being  the  case,  I  suggested  that  perhaps 
they  would  like  it  best  if  I  said  nothing 
at  all.  But  the  Sergeant  shook  his  head. 
Now,  on  first  receiving  the  Mayor's  invita 
tion  to  dinner,  it  had  occurred  to  me  that 


558  OUR   OLD  HOME 

I  might  possibly  be  brought  into  my  pres 
ent  predicament ;  but  I  had  dismissed  the 
idea  from  my  mind  as  too  disagreeable  to 
be  entertained,  and,  moreover,  as  so  alien 
from  my  disposition  and  character  that 
Fate  surely  could  not  keep  such  a  misfor 
tune  in  store  for  me.  If  nothing  else  pre 
vented,  an  earthquake  or  the  crack  of  doom 
would  certainly  interfere  before  I  need  rise 
to  speak.  Yet  here  was  the  Mayor  getting 
on  inexorably,  —  and,  indeed,  I  heartily 
wished  that  he  might  get  on  and  on  for 
ever,  and  of  his  wordy  wanderings  find  no 
end. 

If  the  gentle  reader,  my  kindest  friend 
and  closest  confidant,  deigns  to  desire  it,  I 
can  impart  to  him  my  own  experience  as 
a  public  speaker  quite  as  indifferently  as 
if  it  concerned  another  person.  Indeed,  it 
does  concern  another,  or  a  mere  spectral 
phenomenon,  for  it  was  not  I,  in  my  proper 
and  natural  self,  that  sat  there  at  table  or 
subsequently  rose  to  speak.  At  the  mo 
ment,  then,  if  the  choice  had  been  offered 
me  whether  the  Mayor  should  let  off  a 
speech  at  my  head  or  a  pistol,  I  should 
unhesitatingly  have  taken  the  latter  alter 
native.  I  had  really  nothing  to  say,  not  an 
idea  in  my  head,  nor,  which  was  a  great 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  559 

deal  worse,  any  flowing  words  or  embroi 
dered  sentences  in  which  to  dress  out  that 
empty  Nothing,  and  give  it  a  cunning  as 
pect  of  intelligence,  such  as  might  last  the 
poor  vacuity  the  little  time  it  had  to  live. 
But  time  pressed ;  the  Mayor  brought  his 
remarks,  affectionately  eulogistic  of  the 
United  States  and  highly  complimentary 
to  their  distinguished  representative  at 
that  table,  to  a  close,  amid  a  vast  deal  of 
cheering ;  and  the  band  struck  up  "  Hail 
Columbia, "  I  believe,  though  it  might  have 
been  "  Old  Hundred,  "  or  "  God  save  the 
Queen "  over  .again,  for  anything  that  I 
should  have  known  or  cared.  When  the 
music  ceased,  there  was  an  intensely  dis 
agreeable  instant,  during  which  I  seemed 
to  rend  away  and  fling  off  the  habit  of  a 
lifetime,  and  rose,  still  void  of  ideas,  but 
with  preternatural  composure,  to  make  a 
speech.  The  guests  rattled  on  the  table, 
and  cried,  "  Hear !  "  most  vociferously,  as 
if  now,  at  length,  in  this  foolish  and  idly 
garrulous  world,  had  come  the  long-ex 
pected  moment  when  one  golden  word  was 
to  be  spoken  ;  and  in  that  imminent  crisis, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  little  bit  of  an  ef 
fusion  of  international  sentiment,  which  it 
might,  and  must,  and  should  do  to  utter. 


560  OUR   OLD  HOME 

Well ;  it  was  nothing,  as  the  Sergeant 
had  said.  What  surprised  me  most  was 
the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  which  I  had 
never  before  heard  at  declamatory  pitch, 
and  which  impressed  me  as  belonging  to 
some  other  person,  who,  and  not  myself, 
would  be  responsible  for  the  speech :  a 
prodigious  consolation  and  encouragement 
under  the  circumstances  !  I  went  on  with 
out  the  slightest  embarrassment,  and  sat 
down  amid  great  applause,  wholly  unde 
served  by  anything  that  I  had  spoken,  but 
well  won  from  Englishmen,  methought,  by 
the  new  development  of  pluck  that  alone 
had  enabled  me  to  speak  at  all.  "  It  was 
handsomely  done !  "  quoth  Sergeant  Wil- 
kins ;  and  I  felt  like  a  recruit  who  had 
been  for  the  first  time  under  fire.1 

I  would  gladly  have  ended  my  oratorical 
career  then  and  there  forever,  but  was 
often  placed  in  a  similar  or  worse  position, 
and  compelled  to  meet  it  as  I  best  might ; 

1  Anybody  may  make  an  after-dinner  speech  who  will 
be  content  to  talk  onward  without  saying  anything.  My 
speech  was  not  more  than  two  or  three  inches  long  ; 
and,  considering  that  I  did  not  know  a  soul  there,  ex 
cept  the  Mayor  himself,  and  that  I  am  wholly  unprac- 
ticed  in  all  sorts  of  oratory,  and  that  I  had  nothing  to 
say,  it  was  quite  successful.  I  hardly  thought  it  was  in 
me,  but,  being  once  started,  I  felt  no  embarrassment, 
and  went  through  it  as  coolly  as  if  I  were  going  to  be 
hanged.  —  I.  429. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  561 

for  this  was  one  of  the  necessities  of  an 
office  which  I  had  voluntarily  taken  on  my 
shoulders,  and  beneath  which  I  might  be 
crushed  by  no  moral  delinquency  on  my 
own  part,  but  could  not  shirk  without  cow 
ardice  and  shame.  My  subsequent  for 
tune  was  various.  Once,  though  I  felt  it 
to  be  a  kind  of  imposture,  I  got  a  speech 
by  heart,  and  doubtless  it  might  have  -been 
a  very  pretty  one,  only  I  forgot  every  sylla 
ble  at  the  moment  of  need,  and  had  to  im 
provise  another  as  well  as  I  could.  I  found 
it  a  better  method  to  prearrange  a  few 
points  in  my  mind,  and  trust  to  the  spur 
of  the  occasion,  and  the  kind  aid  of  Provi 
dence,  for  enabling  me  to  bring  them  to 
bear.  The  presence  of  any  considerable 
proportion  of  personal  friends  generally 
dumfounded  me.  I  would  rather  have 
talked  with  an  enemy  in  the  gate.  Invari 
ably,  too,  I  was  much  embarrassed  by  a 
small  audience,  and  succeeded  better  with 
a  large  one,  —  the  sympathy  of  a  multitude 
possessing  a  buoyant  effect,  which  lifts  the 
speaker  a  little  way  out  of  his  individ 
uality,  and  tosses  him  towards  a  perhaps 
better  range  of  sentiment  than  his  pri 
vate  one.  Again,  if  I  rose  carelessly  and 
confidently,  with  an  expectation  of  going 


562  OUR   OLD   HOME 

through  the  business  entirely  at  my  ease, 
I  often  found  that  I  had  little  or  nothing 
to  say  ;  whereas,  if  I  came  to  the  charge 
in  perfect  despair,  and  at  a  crisis  when 
failure  would  have  been  horrible,  it  once 
or  twice  happened  that  the  frightful  emer 
gency  concentrated  my  poor  faculties,  and 
enabled  me  to  give  definite  and  vigorous 
expression  to  sentiments  which  an  instant 
before  looked  as  vague  and  far  off  as  the 
clouds  in  the  atmosphere.  On  the  whole, 
poor  as  my  own  success  may  have  been,  I 
apprehend  that  any  intelligent  man  with  a 
tongue  possesses  the  chief  requisite  of  ora 
torical  power,  and  may  develop  many  of 
the  others,  if  he  deems  it  worth  while  to 
bestow  a  great  amount  of  labor  and  pains 
on  an  object  which  the  most  accomplished 
orators,  I  suspect,  have  not  found  alto 
gether  satisfactory  to  their  highest  im 
pulses.  At  any  rate,  it  must  be  a  re 
markably  true  man  who  can  keep  his  own 
elevated  conception  of  truth  when  the 
lower  feeling  of  a  multitude  is  assailing  his 
natural  sympathies,  and  who  can  speak  out 
frankly  the  best  that  there  is  in  him,  when 
by  adulterating  it  a  little,  or  a  good  deal, 
he  knows  that  he  may  make  it  ten  times 
as  acceptable  to  the  audience. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  563 

This  slight  article  on  the  civic  banquets 
of  England  would  be  too  wretchedly  imper 
fect  without  an  attempted  description  of  a 
Lord  Mayor's  dinner  at  the  Mansion  House 
in  London.  I  should  have  preferred  the 
annual  feast  at  Guildhall,  but  never  had 
the  good  fortune  to  witness  it.  Once,  how 
ever,  I  was  honored  with  an  invitation  to 
one  of  the  regular  dinners,  and  gladly  ac 
cepted  it,  —  taking  the  precaution,  never 
theless,  though  it  hardly  seemed  necessary, 
to  inform  the  City-King,  through  a  mutual 
friend,  that  I  was  no  fit  representative 
of  American  eloquence,  and  must  humbly 
make  it  a  condition  that  I  should  not  be 
expected  to  open  my  mouth,  except  for  the 
reception  of  his  Lordship's  bountiful  hospi 
tality.  The  reply  was  gracious  and  acqui 
escent  ;  so  that  I  presented  myself  in  the 
great  entrance-hall  of  the  Mansion  House, 
at  half-past  six  o'clock,  in  a  state  of  most 
enjoyable  freedom  from  the  pusillanimous 
apprehensions  that  often  tormented  me 
at  such  times.  The  Mansion  House  was 
built  in  Queen  Anne's  days,  in  the  very 
heart  of  old  London,  and  is  a  palace  wor 
thy  of  its  inhabitant,  were  he  really  as  great 
a  man  as  his  traditionary  state  and  pomp 
would  seem  to  indicate.  Times  are  changed, 


564  OUR   OLD  HOME 

however,  since  the  days  of  Whittington,  or 
even  of  Hogarth's  Industrious  Apprentice, 
to  whom  the  highest  imaginable  reward  of 
lifelong  integrity  was  a  seat  in  the  Lord 
Mayor's  chair.  People  nowadays  say  that 
the  real  dignity  and  importance  have  per 
ished  out  of  the  office,  as  they  do,  sooner  or 
later,  out  of  all  earthly  institutions,  leaving 
only  a  painted  and  gilded  shell  like  that  of 
an  Easter  egg,  and  that  it  is  only  second- 
rate  and  third-rate  men  who  now  conde 
scend  to  be  ambitious  of  the  Mayoralty. 
I  felt  a  little  grieved  at  this  ;  for  the  orig 
inal  emigrants  of  New  England  had  strong 
sympathies  with  the  people  of  London,  who 
were  mostly  Puritans  in  religion  and  Par 
liamentarians  in  politics,  in  the  early  days 
of  our  country  ;  so  that  the  Lord  Mayor  was 
a  potentate  of  huge  dimensions  in  the  esti 
mation  of  our  forefathers,  and  held  to  be 
hardly  second  to  the  prime  minister  of  the 
throne.  The  true  great  men  of  the  city 
now  appear  to  have  aims  beyond  city  great 
ness,  connecting  themselves  with  national 
politics,  and  seeking  to  be  identified  with 
the  aristocracy  of  the  country. 

In  the  entrance-hall  I  was  received  by 
a  body  of  footmen  dressed  in  a  livery  of 
blue  coats  and  buff  breeches,  in  which 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  56$ 

they  looked  wonderfully  like  American 
Revolutionary  generals,  only  bedizened 
with  far  more  lace  and  embroidery  than 
those  simple  and  grand  old  heroes  ever 
dreamed  of  wearing.  There  were  likewise 
two  very  imposing  figures,  whom  I  should 
have  taken  to  be  military  men  of  rank,  be 
ing  arrayed  in  scarlet  coats  and  large  silver 
epaulets;  but  they  turned  out  to  be  officers 
of  the  Lord  Mayor's  household,  and  were 
now  employed  in  assigning  to  the  guests 
the  places  which  they  were  respectively  to 
occupy  at  the  dinner-table.  Our  names 
(for  I  had  included  myself  in  a  little  group 
of  friends)  were  announced  ;  and  ascending 
the  staircase,  we  met  his  Lordship  in  the 
doorway  of  the  first  reception-room,  where, 
also,  we  had  the  advantage  of  a  presenta 
tion  to  the  Lady  Mayoress.  As  this  dis 
tinguished  couple  retired  into  private  life 
at  the  termination  of  their  year  of  office,  it 
is  inadmissible  to  make  any  remarks,  criti 
cal  or  laudatory,  on  the  manners  and  bear 
ing  of  two  personages  suddenly  emerging 
from  a  position  of  respectable  mediocrity 
into  one  of  preeminent  dignity  within 
their  own  sphere.  Such  individuals  almost 
always  seem  to  grow  nearly  or  quite  to 
the  full  size  of  their  office.  If  it  were 


566  OUR   OLD   HOME 

desirable  to  write  an  essay  on  the  latent 
aptitude  of  ordinary  people  for  grandeur, 
we  have  an  exemplification  in  our  own 
country,  and  on  a  scale  incomparably 
greater  than  that  of  the  Mayoralty,  though 
invested  with  nothing  like  the  outward 
magnificence  that  gilds  and  embroiders  the 
latter.  If  I  have  been  correctly  informed, 
the  Lord  Mayor's  salary  is  exactly  double 
that  of  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  yet  is  found  very  inadequate  to  his  ne 
cessary  expenditure. 

There  were  two  reception-rooms,  thrown 
into  one  by  the  opening  of  wide  folding- 
doors  ;  and  though  in  an  old  style,  and  not 
yet  so  old  as  to  be  venerable,  they  are 
remarkably  handsome  apartments,  lofty  as 
well  as  spacious,  with  carved  ceilings  and 
walls,  and  at  either  end  a  splendid  fireplace 
of  white  marble,  ornamented  with  sculp 
tured  wreaths  of  flowers  and  foliage.  The 
company  were  about  three  hundred,  many 
of  them  celebrities  in  politics,  war,  litera 
ture,  and  science,  though  I  recollect  none 
preeminently  distinguished  in  either  de 
partment.  But  it  is  certainly  a  pleasant 
mode  of  doing  honor  to  men  of  literature, 
for  example,  who  deserve  well  of  the  public, 
yet  do  not  often  meet  it  face  to  face,  thus 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  $6? 

to  bring  them  together  under  genial  au 
spices,  in  connection  with  persons  of  note 
in  other  lines.  I  know  not  what  may  be 
the  Lord  Mayor's  mode  or  principle  of 
selecting  his  guests,  nor  whether,  during 
his  official  term,  he  can  proffer  his  hospi 
tality  to  every  man  of  noticeable  talent 
in  the  wide  world  of  London,  nor,  in  fine, 
whether  his  Lordship's  invitation  is  much 
sought  for  or  valued  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me 
that  this  periodical  feast  is  one  of  the  many 
sagacious  methods  which  the  English  have 
contrived  for  keeping  up  a  good  under 
standing  among  different  sorts  of  people. 
Like  most  other  distinctions  of  society, 
however,  I  presume  that  the  Lord  Mayor's 
card  does  not  often  seek  out  modest  merit, 
but  comes  at  last  when  the  recipient  is 
conscious  of  the  bore,  and  doubtful  about 
the  honor. 

One  very  pleasant  characteristic,  which 
I  never  met  with  at  any  other  public  or 
partially  public  dinner,  was  the  presence 
of  ladies.  No  doubt,  they  were  principally 
the  wives  and  daughters  of  city  magnates  ; 
and  if  we  may  judge  from  the  many  sly 
allusions  in  old  plays  and  satirical  poems, 
the  city  of  London  has  always  been  famous 
for  the  beauty  of  its  women  and  the  re- 


568  OUR   OLD   HOME 

ciprocal  attractions  between  them  and  the 
men  of  quality.  Be  that  as  it  might,  while 
straying  hither  and  thither  through  those 
crowded  apartments,  I  saw  much  reason  for 
modifying  certain  heterodox  opinions  which 
I  had  imbibed,  in  my  Transatlantic  new 
ness  and  rawness,  as  regarded  the  delicate 
character  and  frequent  occurrence  of  Eng 
lish  beauty.  To  state  the  entire  truth 
(being,  at  this  period,  some  years  old  in 
English  life),  my  taste,  I  fear,  had  long 
since  begun  to  be  deteriorated  by  acquain 
tance  with  other  models  of  feminine  loveli 
ness  than  it  was  my  happiness  to  know 
in  America.  I  often  found,  or  seemed  to 
find,  if  I  may  dare  to  confess  it,  in  the 
persons  of  such  of  my  dear  countrywomen 
as  I  now  occasionally  met,  a  certain  mea- 
greness  (Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  call 
it  scrawniness  !),  a  deficiency  of  physical 
development,  a  scantiness,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  pattern  of  their  material  make,  a  pale 
ness  of  complexion,  a  thinness  of  voice,  — 
all  of  which  characteristics,  nevertheless, 
only  made  me  resolve  so  much  the  more 
sturdily  to  uphold  these  fair  creatures  as 
angels,  because  I  was  sometimes  driven  to 
a  half  -  acknowledgment  that  the  English 
ladies,  looked  at  from  a  lower  point  of 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  569 

view,  were  perhaps  a  little  finer  animals 
than  they.  The  advantages  of  the  latter, 
if  any  they  could  really  be  said  to  have, 
were  all  comprised  in  a  few  additional 
lumps  of  clay  on  their  shoulders  and  other 
parts  of  their  figures.  It  would  be  a  piti 
ful  bargain  to  give  up  the  ethereal  charm 
of  American  beauty  in  exchange  for  half  a 
hundred-weight  of  human  clay  ! 

At  a  given  signal  we  all  found  our  way 
into  an  immense  room,  called  the  Egyptian 
Hall,  I  know  not  why,  except  that  the 
architecture  was  classic,  and  as  different 
as  possible  from  the  ponderous  style  of 
Memphis  and  the  Pyramids.  A  powerful 
band  played  inspiringly  as  we  entered,  and 
a  brilliant  profusion  of  light  shone  down 
on  two  long  tables,  extending  the  whole 
length  of  the  hall,  and  a  cross -table  be 
tween  them,  occupying  nearly  its  entire 
breadth.  Glass  gleamed  and  silver  glis 
tened  on  an  acre  or  two  of  snowy  damask, 
over  which  were  set  out  all  the  accompani 
ments  of  a  stately  feast.  We  found  our 
places  without  much  difficulty,  and  the 
Lord  Mayor's  chaplain  implored  a  blessing 
on  the  food,  —  a  ceremony  which  the  Eng 
lish  never  omit,  at  a  great  dinner  or  a 
small  one,  yet  consider,  I  fear  not  so  much 


570  OUR   OLD  HOME 

a  religious  rite  as  a  sort  of   preliminary 
relish  before  the  soup. 

The  soup,  of  course,  on  this  occasion, 
was  turtle,  of  which,  in  accordance  with 
immemorial  custom,  each  guest  was  allowed 
two  platefuls,  in  spite  of  the  otherwise  im 
mitigable  law  of  table  -  decorum.  Indeed, 
judging  from  the  proceedings  of  the 
gentlemen  near  me,  I  surmised  that  there 
was  no  practical  limit,  except  the  appetite 
of  the  guests  and  the  capacity  of  the  soup- 
tureens.  Not  being  fond  of  this  civic 
dainty,  I  partook  of  it  but  once,  and  then 
only  in  accordance  with  the  wise  maxim, 
always  to  taste  a  fruit,  a  wine,  or  a  cele 
brated  dish,  at  its  indigenous  site  ;  and  the 
fountain-head  of  turtle-soup,  I  suppose,  is 
in  the  Lord  Mayor's  dinner-pot.  It  is  one 
of  those  orthodox  customs  which  people 
follow  for  half  a  century  without  knowing 
why,  to  drink  a  sip  of  rum-punch,  in  a  very 
small  tumbler,  after  the  soup.  It  was  ex 
cellently  well -brewed,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
almost  worth  while  to  sup  the  soup  for  the 
sake  of  sipping  the  punch.  The  rest  of 
the  dinner  was  catalogued  in  a  bill -of -fare 
printed  on  delicate  white  paper  within  an 
arabesque  border  of  green  and  gold.  It 
looked  very  good,  not  only  in  the  English 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  5/1 

and  French  names  of  the  numerous  dishes, 
but  also  in  the  positive  reality  of  the  dishes 
themselves,  which  were  all  set  on  the  table 
to  be  carved  and  distributed  by  the  guests. 
This  ancient  and  honest  method  is  attended 
with  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  a  lavish 
effusion  of  gravy,  yet  by  no  means  be 
stowed  or  dispensed  in  vain,  because  you 
have  thereby  the  absolute  assurance  of  a 
banquet  actually  before  your  eyes,  instead 
of  a  shadowy  promise  in  the  bill  -  of  -  fare, 
and  such  meagre  fulfillment  as  a  single 
guest  can  contrive  to  get  upon  his  individ 
ual  plate.  I  wonder  that  Englishmen,  who 
are  fond  of  looking  at  prize -oxen  in  the 
shape  of  butcher's  meat,  do  not  generally 
better  estimate  the  aesthetic  gormandism 
of  devouring  the  whole  dinner  with  their 
eyesight,  before  proceeding  to  nibble  the 
comparatively  few  morsels  which,  after  all, 
the  most  heroic  appetite  and  widest  stom 
achic  capacity  of  mere  mortals  can  enable 
even  an  alderman  really  to  eat.  There  fell 
to  my  lot  three  delectable  things  enough, 
which  I  take  pains  to  remember,  that  the 
reader  may  not  go  away  wholly  unsatisfied 
from  the  Barmecide  feast  to  which  I  have 
bidden  him,  —  a  red  mullet,  a  plate  of 
mushrooms,  exquisitely  stewed,  and  part  of 


572  OUR    OLD   HOME 

a  ptarmigan,  a  bird  of  the  same  family  as 
the  grouse,  but  feeding  high  up  towards 
the  summit  of  the  Scotch  mountains, 
whence  it  gets  a  wild  delicacy  of  flavor 
very  superior  to  that  of  the  artificially  nur 
tured  English  game -fowl.  All  the  other 
dainties  have  vanished  from  my  memory 
as  completely  as  those  of  Prospero's  ban 
quet  after  Ariel  had  clapped  his  wings 
over  it.  The  band  played  at  intervals  in 
spiriting  us  to  new  efforts,  as  did  likewise 
the  sparkling  wines  which  the  footmen 
supplied  from  an  inexhaustible  cellar,  and 
which  the  guests  quaffed  with  little  appar 
ent  reference  to  the  disagreeable  fact  that 
there  comes  a  to  -  morrow  morning  after 
every  feast.  As  long  as  that  shall  be  the 
case,  a  prudent  man  can  never  have  full 
enjoyment  of  his  dinner. 

Nearly  opposite  to  me,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  sat  a  young  lady  in  white, 
whom  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  describe, 
but  dare  not,  because  not  only  the  super- 
eminence  of  her  beauty,  but  its  peculiar 
character,  would  cause  the  sketch  to  be 
recognized,  however  rudely  it  might  be 
drawn.  I  hardly  thought  that  there  existed 
such  a  woman  outside  of  a  picture  -  frame, 
or  the  covers  of  a  romance  :  not  that  I  had 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  573 

ever  met  with  her  resemblance  even  there, 
but,  being  so  distinct  and  singular  an  ap 
parition,  she  seemed  likelier  to  find  her 
sisterhood  in  poetry  and  picture  than  in 
real  life.  Let  us  turn  away  from  her,  lest 
a  touch  too  apt  should  compel  her  stately 
and  cold  and  soft  and  womanly  grace  to 
gleam  out  upon  my  page  with  a  strange 
repulsion  and  unattainableness  in  the  very 
spell  that  made  her  beautiful.1  At  her 

1  My  eyes  were  mostly  drawn  to  a  young  lady,  who 
sat  nearly  opposite  me,  across  the  table.  She  was,  I 
suppose,  dark,  and  yet  not  dark,  but  rather  seemed  to 
be  of  pure  white  marble,  yet  not  white  ;  but  the  purest 
and  finest  complexion,  without  a  shade  of  color  in  it,  yet 
anything  but  sallow  or  sickly.  Her  hair  was  a  wonder 
ful  deep  raven-black,  black  as  night,  black  as  death  ;  not 
raven -black,  for  that  has  a  shiny  gloss,  and  hers  had 
not,  but  it  was  hair  never  to  be  painted  nor  described, 
—  wonderful  hair,  Jewish  hair.  Her  nose  had  a  beauti 
ful  outline,  though  I  could  see  that  it  was  Jewish  too; 
and  that,  and  all  her  features,  were  so  fine  that  sculpture 
seemed  a  despicable  art  beside  her,  and  certainly  my  pen 
is  good  for  nothing.  If  any  likeness  could  be  given, 
however,  h  must  be  by  sculpture,  not  painting.  She 
was  slender  and  youthful,  and  yet  had  a  stately  and 
cold,  though  soft  and  womanly  grace ;  and,  looking  at 
her,  I  saw  what  were  the  wives  of  the  old  patriarchs  in 
their  maiden  or  early  -  married  days,  —  what  Judith  was, 
for,  womanly  as  she  looked,  I  doubt  not  she  could  have 
slain  a  man  in  a  just  cause,  —  what  Bathsheba  was,  only 
she  seemed  to  have  no  sin  in  her,  —  perhaps  what  Eve 
was,  though  one  could  hardly  think  her  weak  enough  to 
eat  the  apple.  .  .  .  Whether  owing  to  distinctness  of 


574  OUR  OLD  HOME 

side,  and  familiarly  attentive  to  her,  sat 
a  gentleman  of  whom  I  remember  only  a 
hard  outline  of  the  nose  and  forehead,  and 
such  a  monstrous  portent  of  a  beard  that 
you  could  discover  no  symptom  of  a  mouth, 
except  when  he  opened  it  to  speak,  or  to 
put  in  a  morsel  of  food.  Then,  indeed,  you 
suddenly  became  aware  of  a  cave  hidden 
behind  the  impervious  and  darksome  shrub 
bery.  There  could  be  no  doubt  who  this 
gentleman  and  lady  were.  Any  child  would 
have  recognized  them  at  a  glance.  It  was 
Bluebeard  and  a  new  wife  (the  loveliest  of 
the  series,  but  with  already  a  mysterious 
gloom  overshadowing  her  fair  young  brow) 
traveling  in  their  honeymoon,  and  dining, 
among  other  distinguished  strangers,  at  the 
Lord  Mayor's  table. 

After  an  hour  or  two  of  valiant  achieve 
ment  with  knife  and  fork  came  the  dessert ; 
and  at  the  point  of  the  festival  where 
finger-glasses  are  usually  introduced,  a 
large  silver  basin  was  carried  round  to  the 
guests,  containing  rose-water,  into  which 
we  dipped  the  ends  of  our  napkins  and 
were  conscious  of  a  delightful  fragrance, 

race,  my  sense  that  she  was  a  Jewess,  or  whatever  else, 
I  felt  a  sort  of  repugnance,  simultaneously  with  my  per 
ception  that  she  was  an  admirable  creature.  —  II.  238. 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  575 

instead  of  that  heavy  and  weary  odor,  the 
hateful  ghost  of  a  defunct  dinner.  This 
seems  to  be  an  ancient  custom  of  the 
city,  not  confined  to  the  Lord  Mayor's 
table,  but  never  met  with  westward  of 
Temple  Bar. 

During  all  the  feast,  in  accordance  with 
another  ancient  custom,  the  origin  or  pur 
port  of  which  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
heard,  there  stood  a  man  in  armor,  with  a 
helmet  on  his  head,  behind  his  Lordship's 
chair.  When  the  after-dinner  wine  was 
placed  on  the  table,  still  another  official 
personage  appeared  behind  the  chair,  and 
proceeded  to  make  a  solemn  and  sonorous 
proclamation  (in  which  he  enumerated  the 
principal  guests,  comprising  three  or  four 
noblemen,  several  baronets,  and  plenty  of 
generals,  members  of  Parliament,  aldermen, 
and  other  names  of  the  illustrious,  one  of 
which  sounded  strangely  familiar  to  my 
ears),  ending  in  some  such  style  as  this : 
"  and  other  gentlemen  and  ladies,  here 
present,  the  Lord  Mayor  drinks  to  you  all 
in  a  loving-cup,  "  —  giving  a  sort  of  senti 
mental  twang  to  the  two  words,  —  "  and 
sends  it  round  among  you  !  "  And  forth 
with  the  loving-cup  —  several  of  them, 
indeed,  on  each  side  of  the  tables  —  came 


576  OUR   OLD  HOME 

slowly  down  with  all  the  antique  ceremony. 
The  fashion  of  it  is  thus.  The  Lord 
Mayor,  standing  up  and  taking  the  covered 
cup  in  both  hands,  presents  it  to  the  guest 
at  his  elbow,  who  likewise  rises,  and  re 
moves  the  cover  for  his  Lordship  to  drink, 
which  being  successfully  accomplished,  the 
guest  replaces  the  cover  and  receives  the 
cup  into  his  own  hands.  He  then  presents 
it  to  his  next  neighbor,  that  the  cover  may 
be  again  removed  for  himself  to  take  a 
draught,  after  which  the  third  person  goes 
through  a  similar  manoeuvre  with  a  fourth, 
and  he  with  a  fifth,  until  the  whole  com 
pany  find  themselves  inextricably  inter 
twisted  and  entangled  in  one  complicated 
chain  of  love.  When  the  cup  came  to  my 
hands,  I  examined  it  critically,  both  inside 
and  out,  and  perceived  it  to  be  an  antique 
and  richly  ornamented  silver  goblet,  capa 
ble  of  holding  about  a  quart  of  wine.  Con 
sidering  how  much  trouble  we  all  expended 
in  getting  the  cup  to  our  lips,  the  guests 
appeared  to  content  themselves  with  won 
derfully  moderate  potations.  In  truth, 
nearly  or  quite  the  original  quart  of  wine 
being  still  in  the  goblet,  it  seemed  doubt 
ful  whether  any  of  the  company  had  more 
than  barely  touched  the  silver  rim  before 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  5/7 

passing  it  to  their  neighbors,  — a  degree  of 
abstinence  that  might  be  accounted  for  by 
a  fastidious  repugnance  to  so  many  com- 
potators  in  one  cup,  or  possibly  by  a  disap 
probation  of  the  liquor.  Being  curious  to 
know  all  about  these  important  matters, 
with  a  view  of  recommending  to  my 
countrymen  whatever  they  might  usefully 
adopt,  I  drank  an  honest  sip  from  the  lov 
ing-cup,  and  had  no  occasion  for  another, 
—  ascertaining  it  to  be  Claret  of  a  poor 
original  quality,  largely  mingled  with  water, 
and  spiced  and  sweetened.  It  was  good 
enough,  however,  for  a  merely  spectral  or 
ceremonial  drink,  and  could  never  have 
been  intended  for  any  better  purpose. 

The  toasts  now  began  in  the  customary 
order,  attended  with  speeches  neither  more 
nor  less  witty  and  ingenious  than  the  spec 
imens  of  table  eloquence  which  had  here 
tofore  delighted  me.  As  preparatory  to 
each  new  display,  the  herald,  or  whatever 
he  was,  behind  the  chair  of  state,  gave 
awful  notice  that  the  Right  Honorable 
the  Lord  Mayor  was  about  to  propose 
a  toast.  His  Lordship  being  happily  de 
livered  thereof,  together  with  some  ac 
companying  remarks,  the  band  played  an 
appropriate  tune,  and  the  herald  again 


578  OUR   OLD  HOME 

issued  proclamation  to  the  effect  that  such 
or  such  a  nobleman,  or  gentleman,  general, 
dignified  clergyman,  or  what  not,  was  go 
ing  to  respond  to  the  Right  Honorable  the 
Lord  Mayor's  toast ;  then,  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  was  another  prodigious  flourish  of 
trumpets  and  twanging  of  stringed  instru 
ments  ;  and,  finally,  the  doomed  individual, 
waiting  all  this  while  to  be  decapitated, 
got  up  and  proceeded  to  make  a  fool  of 
himself.  A  bashful  young  earl  tried  his 
maiden  oratory  on  the  good  citizens  of 
London,  and,  having  evidently  got  every 
word  by  heart  (even  including,  however 
he  managed  it,  the  most  seemingly  casual 
improvisations  of  the  moment),  he  really 
spoke  like  a  book,  and  made  incomparably 
the  smoothest  speech  I  ever  heard  in  Eng 
land. 

The  weight  and  gravity  of  the  speakers, 
not  only  on  this  occasion,  but  all  similar 
ones,  was  what  impressed  me  as  most 
extraordinary,  not  to  say  absurd.  Why 
should  people  eat  a  good  dinner,  and  put 
their  spirits  into  festive  trim  with  Cham 
pagne,  and  afterwards  mellow  themselves 
into  a  most  enjoyable  state  of  quietude 
with  copious  libations  of  Sherry  and  old 
Port,  and  then  disturb  the  whole  excellent 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  579 

result  by  listening  to  speeches  as  heavy  as 
an  after-dinner  nap,  and  in  no  degree  so 
refreshing?  If  the  Champagne  had  thrown 
its  sparkle  over  the  surface  of  these  effu 
sions,  or  if  the  generous  Port  had  shone 
through  their  substance  with  a  ruddy  glow 
of  the  old  English  humor,  I  might  have 
seen  a  reason  for  honest  gentlemen  prat 
tling  in  their  cups,  and  should  undoubtedly 
have  been  glad  to  be  a  listener.  But  there 
was  no  attempt  nor  impulse  of  the  kind  on 
the  part  of  the  orators,  nor  apparent  expec 
tation  of  such  a  phenomenon  on  that  of 
the  audience.  In  fact,  I  imagine  that  the 
latter  were  best  pleased  when  the  speaker 
embodied  his  ideas  in  the  figurative  lan 
guage  of  arithmetic,  or  struck  upon  any 
hard  matter  of  business  or  statistics,  as 
a  heavy  -  laden  bark  bumps  upon  a  rock 
in  mid-ocean.1  The  sad  severity,  the  too 
earnest  utilitarianism,  of  modern  life,  have 

1  I  rather  think  that  Englishmen  would  purposely 
avoid  eloquence  or  neatness  in  after-dinner  speeches.  It 
seems  to  be  no  part  of  their  object.  Yet  any  English 
man  almost,  much  more  generally  than  Americans,  will 
stand  up  and  talk  on  in  a  plain  way,  uttering  one  rough, 
ragged,  and  shapeless  sentence  after  another,  and  will 
have  expressed  himself  sensibly,  though  in  a  very  rude 
manner,  before  he  sits  down.  And  this  is  quite  satis 
factory  to  his  audience,  who,  indeed,  are  rather  preju 
diced  agains^  the  man  who  speaks  too  glibly.  —  I.  540. 


580  OUR    OLD   HOME 

wrought  a  radical  and  lamentable  change, 
I  am  afraid,  in  this  ancient  and  goodly 
institution  of  civic  banquets.  People  used 
to  come  to  them,  a  few  hundred  years  ago, 
for  the  sake  of  being  jolly  ;  they  come  now 
with  an  odd  notion  of  pouring  sober  wis 
dom  into  their  wine  by  way  of  wormwood- 
bitters,  and  thus  make  such  a  mess  of  it 
that  the  wine  and  wisdom  reciprocally 
spoil  one  another. 

Possibly,  the  foregoing  sentiments  have 
taken  a  spice  of  acridity  from  a  circum 
stance  that  happened  about  this  stage  of 
the  feast,  and  very  much  interrupted  my 
own  further  enjoyment  of  it.  Up  to  this 
time,  my  condition  had  been  exceedingly 
felicitous,  both  on  account  of  the  brilliancy 
of  the  scene,  and  because  I  was  in  close 
proximity  with  three  very  pleasant  English 
friends.  One  of  them  was  a  lady,  whose 
honored  name  my  readers  would  recognize 
as  a  household  word,  if  I  dared  write  it ; 
another,  a  gentleman,  likewise  well  known 
to  them,  whose  fine  taste,  kind  heart,  and 
genial  cultivation  are  qualities  seldom 
mixed  in  such  happy  proportion  as  in  him. 
The  third  was  the  man  to  whom  I  owed 
most  in  England,  the  warm  benignity  of 
whose  nature  was  never  weary  of  doing  me 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  581 

good,  who  led  me  to  many  scenes  of  life, 
in  town,  camp,  and  country,  which  I  never 
could  have  found  out  for  myself,  who  knew 
precisely  the  kind  of  help  a  stranger  needs, 
and  gave  it  as  freely  as  if  he  had  not  had  a 
thousand  more  important  things  to  live  for. 
Thus  I  never  felt  safer  or  cosier  at  any 
body's  fireside,  even  my  own,  than  at  the 
dinner-table  of  the  Lord  Mayor. 

Out  of  this  serene  sky  came  a  thunder 
bolt.  His  Lordship  got  up  and  proceeded 
to  make  some  very  eulogistic  remarks  upon 
"  the  literary  and  commercial  "  —  I  ques 
tion  whether  those  two  adjectives  were 
ever  before  married  by  a  copulative  con 
junction,  and  they  certainly  would  not  live 
together  in  illicit  intercourse,  of  their  own 
accord  —  "  the  literary  and  commercial  at 
tainments  of  an  eminent  gentleman  there 
present,"  and  then  went  on  to  speak  of 
the  relations  of  blood  and  interest  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  aforesaid  eminent 
gentleman's  native  country.  Those  bonds 
were  more  intimate  than  had  ever  before 
existed  between  two  great  nations,  through 
out  all  history,  and  his  Lordship  felt  as 
sured  that  that  whole  honorable  company 
would  join  him  in  the  expression  of  a  fer 
vent  wish  that  they  might  be  held  inviola- 


582  OUR   OLD   HOME 

bly  sacred,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
now  and  forever.  Then  came  the  same 
wearisome  old  toast,  dry  and  hard  to  chew 
upon  as  a  musty  sea-biscuit,  which  had  been 
the  text  of  nearly  all  the  oratory  of  my 
public  career.  The  herald  sonorously  an 
nounced  that  Mr.  So-and-so  would  now  re 
spond  to  his  Right  Honorable  Lordship's 
toast  and  speech,  the  trumpets  sounded  the 
customary  flourish  for  the  onset,  there  was 
a  thunderous  rumble  of  anticipatory  ap 
plause,  and  finally  a  deep  silence  sank  upon 
the  festive  hall. 

All  this  was  a  horrid  piece  of  treachery 
on  the  Lord  Mayor's  part,  after  beguiling 
me  within  his  lines  on  a  pledge  of  safe-con 
duct  ;  and  it  seemed  very  strange  that  he 
could  not  let  an  unobtrusive  individual  eat 
his  dinner  in  peace,  drink  a  small  sample 
of  the  Mansion  House  wine,  and  go  away 
grateful  at  heart  for  the  old  English  hos 
pitality.  If  his  Lordship  had  sent  me  an 
infusion  of  ratsbane  in  the  loving-cup,  I 
should  have  taken  it  much  more  kindly  at 
his  hands.  But  I  suppose  the  secret  of  the 
matter  to  have  been  somewhat  as  follows. 

All  England,  just  then,  was  in  one  of 
those  singular  fits  of  panic  excitement  (not 
fear,  though  as  sensitive  and  tremulous  as 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  583 

that  emotion),  which,  in  consequence  of 
the  homogeneous  character  of  the  people, 
their  intense  patriotism,  and  their  depen 
dence  for  their  ideas  in  public  affairs  on 
other  sources  than  their  own  examination 
and  individual  thought,  are  more  sudden, 
pervasive,  and  unreasoning  than  any  sim 
ilar  mood  of  our  own  public.  In  truth,  I 
have  never  seen  the  American  public  in  a 
state  at  all  similar,  and  believe  that  we  are 
incapable  of  it.  Our  excitements  are  not 
impulsive,  like  theirs,  but,  right  or  wrong, 
are  moral  and  intellectual.  For  example, 
the  grand  rising  of  the  North,  at  the  com 
mencement  of  this  war,  bore  the  aspect 
of  impulse  and  passion  only  because  it  was 
so  universal,  and  necessarily  done  in  a  mo* 
ment,  just  as  the  quiet  and  simultaneous 
getting-up  of  a  thousand  people  out  of 
their  chairs  would  cause  a  tumult  that 
might  be  mistaken  for  a  storm.  We  were 
cool  then,  and  have  been  cool  ever  since, 
and  shall  remain  cool  to  the  end,  which 
we  shall  take  coolly,  whatever  it  may  be. 
There  is  nothing  which  the  English  find  it 
so  difficult  to  understand  in  us  as  this  char 
acteristic.  They  imagine  us,  in  our  collec 
tive  capacity,  a  kind  of  wild  beast,  whose 
normal  condition  is  savage  fury,  and  are 


584  OUR   OLD  HOME 

always  looking  for  the  moment  when  we 
shall  break  through  the  slender  barriers  of 
international  law  and  comity,  and  compel 
the  reasonable  part  of  the  world,  with  them 
selves  at  the  head,  to  combine  for  the  pur 
pose  of  putting  us  into  a  stronger  cage. 
At  times  this  apprehension  becomes  so 
powerful  (and  when  one  man  feels  it,  a 
million  do)  that  it  resembles  the  passage  of 
the  wind  over  a  broad  field  of  grain,  where 
you  see  the  whole  crop  bending  and  sway 
ing  beneath  one  impulse,  and  each  sep 
arate  stalk  tossing  with  the  self-same  dis 
turbance  as  its  myriad  companions.  At 
such  periods  all  Englishmen  talk  with  a 
terrible  identity  of  sentiment  and  expres 
sion.  You  have  the  whole  country  in 
each  man  ;  and  not  one  of  them  all,  if  you 
put  him  strictly  to  the  question,  can  give  a 
reasonable  ground  for  his  alarm.  There 
are  but  two  nations  in  the  world  —  our 
own  country  and  France  —  that  can  put 
England  into  this  singular  state.  It  is  the 
united  sensitiveness  of  a  people  extremely 
v  jll-to-do,  careful  of  their  country's  honor, 
'lost  anxious  for  the  preservation  of  the 
jumbrous  and  moss-grown  prosperity  which 
they  have  been  so  long  in  consolidating, 
and  incompetent  (owing  to  the  national 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  585 

half-sightedness,  and  their  habit  of  trust 
ing  to  a  few  leading  minds  for  their  public 
opinion)  to  judge  when  that  prosperity  is 
really  threatened. 

If  the  English  were  accustomed  to  look 
at  the  foreign  side  of  any  international 
dispute,  they  might  easily  have  satisfied 
themselves  that  there  was  very  little 
danger  of  a  war  at  that  particular  crisis, 
from  the  simple  circumstance  that  their 
own  Government  had  positively  not  an 
inch  of  honest  ground  to  stand  upon,  and 
could  not  fail  to  be  aware  of  the  fact. 
Neither  could  they  have  met  Parliament 
with  any  show  of  a  justification  for  incur 
ring  war.  It  was  no  such  perilous  juncture 
as  exists  now,  when  law  and  right  are 
really  controverted  on  sustainable  or  plau 
sible  grounds,  and  a  naval  commander  may 
at  any  moment  fire  off  the  first  cannon  of 
a  terrible  contest.  If  I  remember  it  cor 
rectly,  it  was  a  mere  diplomatic  squabble, 
in  which  the  British  ministers,  with  the 
politic  generosity  which  they  are  in  the 
habit  of  showing  towards  their  official  sub 
ordinates,  had  tried  to  browbeat  us  for  the 
purpose  of  sustaining  an  ambassador  in  an 
indefensible  proceeding ;  and  the  American 
Government  (for  God  had  not  denied  us  an 


586  OUR   OLD  HOME 

administration  of  statesmen  then)  had  re 
taliated  with  stanch  courage  and  exquisite 
skill,  putting  inevitably  a  cruel  mortifica 
tion  upon  their  opponents,  but  indulging 
them  with  no  pretense  whatever  for  active 
resentment. 

Now  the  Lord  Mayor,  like  any  other 
Englishman,  probably  fancied  that  War 
was  on  the  western  gale,  and  was  glad  to 
lay  hold  of  even  so  insignificant  an  Ameri 
can  as  myself,  who  might  be  made  to  harp 
on  the  rusty  old  strings  of  national  sympa 
thies,  identity  of  blood  and  interest,  and 
community  of  language  and  literature,  and 
whisper  peace  where  there  was  no  peace, 
in  however  weak  an  utterance.  And  pos 
sibly  his  Lordship  thought,  in  his  wisdom, 
that  the  good  feeling  which  was  sure  to  be 
expressed  by  a  company  of  well-bred  Eng 
lishmen,  at  his  august  and  far-famed  dinner- 
table,  might  have  an  appreciable  influence 
on  the  grand  result.  Thus,  when  the  Lord 
Mayor  invited  me  to  his  feast,  it  was  a 
piece  of  strategy.  He  wanted  to  induce 
me  to  fling  myself,  like  a  lesser  Curtius, 
with  a  larger  object  of  self-sacrifice,  into 
the  chasm  of  discord  between  England  and 
America,  and,  on  my  ignominious  demur, 
had  resolved  to  shove  me  in  with  his  own 


CIVIC  BANQUETS  587 

right -honorable  hands,  in  the  hope  of  clos 
ing  up  the  horrible  pit  forever.  On  the 
whole,  I  forgive  his  Lordship.  He  meant 
well  by  all  parties,  —  himself,  who  would 
share  the  glory,  and  me,  who  ought  to  have 
desired  nothing  better  than  such  an  he 
roic  opportunity,  —  his  own  country,  which 
would  continue  to  get  cotton  and  bread- 
stuffs,  and  mine,  which  would  get  every 
thing  that  men  work  with  and  wear. 

As  soon  as  the  Lord  Mayor  began  to 
speak,  I  rapped  upon  my  mind,  and  it 
gave  forth  a  hollow  sound,  being  abso 
lutely  empty  of  appropriate  ideas.  I  never 
thought  of  listening  to  the  speech,  because 
I  knew  it  all  beforehand  in  twenty  repeti 
tions  from  other  lips,  and  was  aware  that  it 
would  not  offer  a  single  suggestive  point. 
In  this  dilemma,  I  turned  to  one  of  my 
three  friends,  a  gentleman  whom  I  knew 
to  possess  an  enviable  flow  of  silver  speech, 
and  obtested  him,  by  whatever  he  deemed 
holiest,  to  give  me  at  least  an  available 
thought  or  two  to  start  with,  and,  once 
afloat,  I  would  trust  my  guardian-angel  for 
enabling  me  to  flounder  ashore  again.  He 
advised  me  to  begin  with  some  remarks 
complimentary  to  the  Lord  Mayor,  and 
expressive  of  the  hereditary  reverence  in 


588  OUR   OLD  HOME 

which  his  office  was  held,  —  at  least,  my 
friend  thought  that  there  would  be  no 
harm  in  giving  his  Lordship  this  little 
sugar -plum,  whether  quite  the  fact  or  no, 
— was  held  by  the  descendants  of  the  Puri 
tan  forefathers.  Thence,  if  I  liked,  getting 
flexible  with  the  oil  ot  my  own  eloquence, 
I  might  easily  slide  off  into  the  momentous 
subject  of  the  relations  between  England 
and  America,  to  which  his  Lordship  had 
made  such  weighty  allusion. 

Seizing  this  handful  of  straw  with  a 
death -grip,  and  bidding  my  three  friends 
bury  me  honorably,  I  got  upon  my  legs  to 
save  both  countries,  or  perish  in  the  at 
tempt.  The  tables  roared  and  thundered 
at  me,  and  suddenly  were  silent  again. 
But,  as  I  have  never  happened  to  stand  in 
a  position  of  .greater  dignity  and  peril,  I 
deem  it  a  stratagem  of  sage  policy  here  to 
close  these  Sketches,  leaving  myself  still 
erect  in  so  heroic  an  attitude. 


INDEX 


ACTRESS,  an,  in  an  almshouse, 

ean  theory,  172,  173,  176-178; 

507  ;   starving  for  admiration, 

her  personal  appearance,  174; 

508. 

her  book,  179,  189,  192  ;  an  ad 

Adclison,    early    home    of,   215; 

mirable  talker,   180;   at   Strat 

buried  among  the  men  of  rank, 

ford,    181-191  ;    her   plans  for 

456. 

searching  Shakespeare's  grave, 

Advice,  as  to  giving,  42. 

182-184  ;     Hawthorne     incurs 

Ailsa  Craig,  358. 
Alexander,    Miss,   the    Lass    of 

her  displeasure,   188;    her  in 
sanity,  191  ;  her  death,  192. 

Ballochmyle,  344. 

Ballochmyle,  the  Lass  of,  344. 

Almshouse,  a  great  English,  498- 

Banquets,  civic,  527-588. 

522. 

Barber  Surgeons'  Hall,  in  Lon 

American    flags,    captured,    dis 

don,  537-539- 

played    in   Chelsea    Hospital, 

435; 

Bear  and  Ragged  Staff,  the,  cog 
nizance  of  the  Warwick  Earl 

American  mercantile  marine,  mis 

dom,  109  ;  silver  badge  of,  113  ; 

represented  at  Liverpool,  2,  3, 

representations  of,  at  Leices 

46  ;  its  vicious  system,  45,  48. 
American   shipmasters,  cruelties 

ter's  Hospital,  116,  118,  133. 
Beauchamp,    Richard,    Earl    of 

of,  44-49. 

Warwick,   memorial    of,    138  ; 

Americans,  national  characteris 

strange  accident  to,  139. 

tics  of,  as  seen  by  a  consul,  9, 

Beauchamp  Chapel,  at  Warwick, 

10  ;  vagabond  habits  of,  11,12; 

137-140. 

as  claimants  of  English  estates, 
18,  22-31  ;  growth  and  change 

Bebbington,   monuments   at,  85, 
note  ;  old  village  church  of,  98, 

the  law  of  their  existence,  93  ; 

note. 

their  scholars  and  critics,  190  ; 
their  light  regard  for  the  Pres 

Beggar,  a  true  Englishman's  dis 
like  of  a,  491  ;  hardening  the 

ident,  553. 
Andre,  Major,  at  Lichfield,  216. 

heart  against,  492  ;  a  phenom 
enal,  493-495. 

Anne,  Queen,  statue  of,  at  Blen 

Belmont,  August,  minister  at  the 

heim,  295. 

Hague,  29. 

Antiquity,     hoar,     in      English 
scenes,  90. 

Ben  Lomond,  358. 
Black  Swan  inn,  Lichfield,  199. 

Archdeacon  ale,  300. 

Blackheath,  the  wide  waste  of, 

Armour,  Jean,  329,  330,  346. 

370-373  5  amusements  at,  373- 

Auchinleck,  estate  of,  343. 

375- 

Avon,  the,  arched  bridge  at  War 

Blenheim,  excursion  to,  281,  282; 

wick,    105  ;    a  sluggish    river, 

its    park,    283-289  ;    Marlbor. 

166. 

ough's    Triumphal    Pillar    at 

Ayr,  ride  to,  347  ;  its  two  bridges, 

289;   its  palace,   289-296;    its 

34S. 

gardens,  296-298. 

Bolton,  231. 

Bacon,  Lord,  his  Letters,  176. 

Boston,  old,  trip  to,  by  steameif 

Bacon,  Miss,  a  very  remarkable 

from    Lincoln,    255-259;     the 

woman,  172;  her  Shakespear 

river  side  of,  260  ;  antique-look- 

590 


INDEX 


ing  houses  at,  263  ;  a  booksell 

Cockneys,   in   Greenwich    Park 

er's     shop    at,    264,    265;    its 

^379- 

crooked    and    narrow    streets, 

Coffee-room,  English,  ponderous 

275  ;  its  Charity  School  schol 

gloom  of,  200. 

ars,  277  ;  market-day  in,  278. 
Boswell,  Sir  James,  grandson  of 
Johnson's  friend,  343. 

Combe,  John  a',  boon-companion 
of    Shakespeare,    164;    buried 
near  Shakespeare,  168;  marble 

Brooke,    Lord,    shot     near    the 

figure   of,    170;    Shakespeare's 

Minster  Pool,  206. 

squib  on,  170. 

Brown,    Capability,    his  lake   at 

Concord   River,    compared   with 

Blenheim,     284  ;     grounds    at 

the  Learn,  67. 

Nuneham  Courtney,  321. 

Connecticut  shopkeeper,  a,  seek 

Buchanan,   James,    in    London, 

ing  interview  with  the  Queen, 

20;  receives  Hawthorne's  res 

17-21. 

ignation,  55  ;  calls  on  Miss  Ba 

Conner,  Mr.,  an  American  patron 

con,  178. 

of  Leicester's  Hospital,  133. 

Buckland,  Dean,  swallows   part 

Consul,   as  general  adviser  and 

of  Louis  XlV.'s'heart,  270. 

helper,   31,  32,  42,  43  ;  as  ar 

Bull,  John,  too  intensely  English, 

biter  between  seamen  and  their 

101. 

officers,  44-49;    not  a  favorite 

Bunker  Hill,  England,  279. 

with   shipmasters,   49  ;    neces 

Burleigh,  Lord,  waistcoat  of,  266. 

sary     qualifications,     51,      52; 

Burns,  Robert,  his  house  at  Dum 

wrong  system  of   appointment 

fries,  325-327  ;  his  mausoleum, 

and    removal,    52  ;     important 

329»    33°)     marble    statue    of, 

duties,   53  ;     emoluments,    55, 

329;  his  outward  life,  331  ;  his 

note. 

family   pew    in    St.    Michael's 

Consulate,  American,   in   Liver 

Church,  334;  his  farm  of  Moss 

pool,    its   location,    i  ;    its   ap 

Giel,  337-342  ;    his  birthplace, 
349-351  ;    his  monument,  351- 

proaches,  i,  2  ;  its  furnishings, 
3-6;  visitors  at,  7-21;  faithful 

353- 

English   subordinates,  50,  51  ; 

Butchers'  shops,  in  poor  streets 

Hawthorne's  successor  at,  56. 

of  London,  474. 

Cook,     Captain,     present     from 

Queen  of  Otaheite  to,  266. 

Carfax,  the,  320. 

Cornwall,  Barry,  469. 

Caskets,  burial,  "  a  vile  modern 

Cottages,  rustic  laborers',  79-81. 

phrase,"  140. 

Cotton,  Rev.  John,  in  Old  Bos 

Cass,   Lewis,  responds  to   inter 

ton,  263,  270,  271. 

ference  of  British  Minister,  46. 

Crystal  Palace,  the,  438. 

Catrine,    "  the  clean    village   of 

Cumnor,     village     of,    301  ;     its 

Scotland,"  345. 

church,  302,  303. 

Ceylon,  wild  men  of,  28. 

Cymbeline,     King,    founder    of 

Charlecote  Hall,  195-198. 

Warwick,  103,  129  ;  one  of  his 

Charlecote   Park,   193  ;    deer  in, 

original  gateways,  112. 

194)  195- 
Charles,  the  Martyr,  king,  270. 
Charles  I.,  Vandyck's  picture  of, 

Deluge,  necessity  of  a  new,  472, 
518- 

292. 

Dinner,  the  English  idea  of,  527  ; 

Chelsea,  433. 

Milton  on,  528  ;  a  perfect  work 

Chelsea  Hospital,  433~437- 

of   art,    530,    531  ;    an    English 

Chester,   most  curious    town   in 

mayor's,  539-560  :  Lord   May 

England,  59. 

or's,  at   the   Mansion   House, 

Children   in    an    English    alms- 

563- 

house,  509-519. 

Doctor  of    Divinity,   an   erring, 

Children,  poor,  in  London  streets, 

33-41- 

487-489. 

Doon,  the  bridge  of,  357. 

Church     of    the    Holy    Trinity, 

Dowager,  an  English,  73-75. 

Stratford,  155. 

Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  estab 

Climate,  English,  unfavorable  to 

lishes     Leicester's      Hospital, 

open-air  memorials,  83,  84. 

115;  a  grim  sinner,    127;  his 

INDEX 


59* 


monument       in       Beauchamp 

Chapel,  137 ;  his  long-enduring 

kindness,  138. 

Dumfries,  excursion  to,  325-334. 
Dutch  government,  an  American 

under  the  ban  of,  29. 

East  winds,  English,  257. 
Edward  IV.,  King,  a  lock  of  his 

hair,  140. 
Edward  the  Confessor,  shrine  of, 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  Secret-Book 
of,  269. 

Elm,  the  beautiful  Warwickshire, 
69. 

England,  conservative,  141 ;  yet 
the  foundations  of  its  aristo 
cracy  crumbling,  141. 

English,  the,  forgetful  of  defeats, 
4;  their  character,  massive  ma 
teriality  of,  23;  secret  of  their 
practical  success,  42 ;  impos 
tors  betrayed  by  pronunci 
ation  of  "been, "44;  their  in 
tegrity,  51;  their  love  of  high 
stone  fences  and  shrubbery,  69, 
371;  curious  infelicity  of,  100 ; 
like  to  feel  the  weight  of  the 
past,  in  ;  the  very  kindest  peo 
ple  on  earth,  305 ;  their  insular 
narrowness,  306;  their  ina 
bility  to  enjoy  summer,  367; 
original  simplicity  of,  379;  ea 
ger  to  know  their  weight,  402  ; 
women  not  beautiful ,  406 ;  their 
contempt  for  fine-strained 
purity,  408,  409 ;  their  tendency 
to  batter  one  another's  persons, 
482. 

English  crowds,  unfragrant,  397, 
398. 

English    post-prandial     oratory, 

English  village,  fossilized  life  of 
an,  93. 

English  weather,  5,  366-368. 

Englishman,  a  middle-aged,  per 
sonal  appearance  of,  542. 

Epitaphs :  illegible,  on  English 
gravestones,  84 ;  moss-em 
bossed,  85 ;  forlorn  one  on 
John  Treeo,  86,  87. 

Eugene,  Prince,  tapestry  portraits 
of,  294. 

Feeing,    in    England,    161,    162, 

note. 
Feminine   character    among    the 

London  poor,  481-487. 


Fences,  English  stone,  adorned 
by  Nature,  151,  152,  note. 

Forster,  Anthony,  buried  in 
Cumnor  Church,  303. 

Fruit,  English,  poor  flavor  of, 
364. 

Fun  of  the  Fair,  the,  399. 

Garrick,  David,  boyish  days  at 

Lichfield,  216. 
Gin-shops,  London,  472. 
Girls,    English    and    American, 

contrasted,  72,  75,  406. 
Godiva,     Countess,    picture    of, 

Godstowe,  old  nunnery  of,  317. 

Gravestones,  English,  successive 
crops  of,  83  ;  illegible  inscrip 
tions  on,  84;  moss-embossed 
inscriptions  on,  85. 

Greenwich,  its  park,  376,  377, 
379,  380,  383  ;  its  observatory, 
the  centre  of  Time  and  Space, 
376;  its  hospital,  385-396;  its 
fair,  396-408. 

Hatton,  a  community  of  old  set 
tlers,  95  ;  its  church,  96,  97. 

Hawthorne  responds  to  toasts  at 
civic  banquets,  558-560,  582- 
588. 

Hedges,  English,  149. 

Henry  V.,  his  helmet  and  war- 
saddle  displayed  in  Westmin 
ster  Abbey,  455. 

Highland  Mary,  the  pocket  Bible 
that  Burns  gave  her,  353. 

Holbein,  masterpiece  of,  in  Bar 
ber  Surgeons'  Hall,  537. 

Home,  a  genuine  British,  359- 
364. 

Hotels  and  hotel  bills,  English, 
162,  note. 

Houses  of  Parliament,  the,  431. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  interview  with, 
459-468 ;  final  recollection  of, 
468. 

Imogen,  Shakespeare's  woman- 
liest  woman,  129. 

Jackson,  General,  bust  of,  4. 

James,  G.  P.  R.,  never  saw  Lon 
don  Tower,  428. 

James  I.,  King,  feasted  by  an 
Earl  of  Warwick,  119,  134. 

Jephson,  Dr.,  discoverer  of  cha 
lybeate  well  at  Leamington,  63. 

Jephson  Garden,  on  the  Leamt 
65-67. 


592 


INDEX 


Johnson,  Dr.,  born  at  Lichfield, 
201 ;  as  a  man,  a  talker,  and  a 
humorist,  202;  the  great  Eng 
lish  moralist,  203 ;  his  birth 
place,  216,  217;  his  statue,  by 
Lucas,  218;  statue  in  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  219,  note;  doing 
penance  in  the  market-place, 
220,  223,  228,  229,  230;  his  faith 
in  beef  and  mutton,  225. 

Johnson,  Michael,  selling  books 
on  market-day,  221  ;  his  book 
stall,  222;  at  the  Nag's  Head 
inn,  226,  227. 

Jolly  Beggars,  the,  at  Posie  Nan- 
sie's  inn,  336. 

Jonson,  Ben,  buried  standing  up 
right,  451. 

Judges,  social  standing  of,  549. 

Kemble,  John,  statue  of,  in  West 
minster  Abbey,  445. 

Kirk  Alloway,  354-356. 

"  Kissing  in  the  Ring,"  404. 

Kneller,  Sir  Godfrey,  his  objec 
tion  to  being  buried  in  West 
minster  Abbey,  449. 

Lambeth  Palace,  432. 

Lancashire,  a  dreary  county,  231. 

Lansdowne  Circus,  60  ;  its  houses, 
61 ;  its  inhabitants,  62. 

Learn,  the  river,  63,  65  ;  the  lazi 
est  in  the  world,  67. 

Leamington  Spa,  60;  a  perma 
nent  watering-place,  63,  64; 
the  business  portion  of  the 
town,  68 ;  beautiful  in  street 
and  suburb,  69;  but  preten 
tious,  70  ;  its  aristocratic 
names,  71  ;  the  throng  on  its 
principal  Parade,  71,  72. 

Lear,  West's  dreary  picture  of, 
390. 

Leicester's  Hospital  at  War 
wick  :  an  assemblage  of  edi 
fices,  112;  the  twelve  brethren 
of,  113,  115,  116,  118,  125,  131, 
i34>  I35'i  a  perfect  specimen, 
116;  a  jolly  old  domicile,  121; 
system  of  life  in,  123;  the  por 
ter  at,  124-126. 

Lestrange,  Sir  Nicholas,  first 
proprietor  of  Leicester's  Hos 
pital  buildings,  114,  115. 

Lichfield,  199;  origin  of  the 
name,  201 ;  birthplace  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  201,  216;  its  people 
old-fashioned,  204 ;  its  cathe 
dral,  206-214. 


Lillington,  the  village,  78 ;  its 
church,  81,  82  ;  its  churchyard, 
83-87. 

Lincoln,  cabs  unknown  there, 
236 ;  its  narrow  principal  street, 
237 ;  its  cathedral,  236,  239- 
249,  253,  254;  Roman  remains 
at,  250  ;  Norman  ruins  at,  251. 

Linkwater,  Sir  John,  fines  him 
self  for  drunkenness,  548. 

Liquor,  varieties  of  hop  and 
malt,  in  England,  299,  300. 

Liverpool,  a  convenient  starting- 
point  for  excursions,  58. 

Lodgings,  English  custom  of,  70, 
note. 

London,  suburb,  a,  359;  a  distant 
view  of,  373  ;  grimy,  375. 

Lord  Mayor's  dinner,  at  the 
Mansion  House,  563-588. 

Lovers'  Grove,   at   Leamington, 

Loving-cup,  the   Lord   Mayor's, 

Lucy,  Sir  Thomas,  and  Shake 
speare,  196. 

Malay  pirates,  delightful  quali 
ties  of,  28. 

Mansfield,  Lord,  statue  of,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  445. 

Mansion  House,  the,  in  London, 
563. 

Marlborough,  Duke  of,  Tri 
umphal  Pillar  of,  288. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  quilt  em 
broidered  by,  265,  271. 

Mauchline,  redolent  of  Burns, 
335 ;  rusty  and  time-worn,  336 ; 
its  chief  business,  346. 

Maury,  Mr.,  appointed  consul  at 
Liverpool  by  Washington,  50. 

McClellan,  General,  before  Rich 
mond,  43. 

Melville,  Herman,  his  "  Israel 
Potter  "  referred  to,  13. 

"  Memory  green,  keep  his,"  pos 
sible  origin  of  the  phrase,  86. 

Methodist  open-air  preaching  in 
Greenwich  Park,  380-383. 

Minster  Pool,  the,  at  Lichfield, 
205. 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley, 
monument  to,  in  Lichfield  Ca 
thedral,  211. 

Moss  Giel,  Burns's  farm  of,  337- 
342. 

Museum,  the  British,  too  manj 
materials  for  knowledge  in,  384, 
note. 


INDEX 


593 


Nag's  Head  inn,  the,  at  Uttox- 

P.egatta  of  the  Free  Watermen  of 

eter,  226. 

Greenwich,  a,  413. 

Nelson,  Admiral,  his  highest  am 

Remorse,  tragedy  of,  40. 

bition,  391  ;    not  a  representa 

Robsart,    Amy,    embroidery    by, 

tive   man,  392-394;    Southey's 

at    Leicester's    Hospital,    133  ; 

biography  of,  393;    pictures  of 

monument  of  her  avenger,  137. 

his  exploits,  394;    two   of   his 

Rosamond,  Fair,  at  the  nunnery 

coats  preserved  at  Greenwich         of  Godstowe,  317. 

Hospital,  395. 

Rosamond's  Well,  Blenheim,  287. 

Newcastle,   Duke  and    Duchess 

Russell,  Lord  John,  remonstrates 

of,  444. 

against  outrages  on  American 

New  Orleans,  battle  of,  forgotten 

sailors,  46. 

by  Englishmen,  4. 

Nuneham  Courtney,  314,  320-322. 

Sacheverell,  Dr.,  219. 

Sacrament     Sunday    at    Mauch- 

Old  age,  cheerful  and   genial  in 

line,  337. 

England,  277. 

Sailors,   American,   ill-usage  of, 

Open-air  life  of  the  London  poor, 

44- 

476-481. 

St.  Botolph's  Church,  Old  Bos 

Otaheite,  Queen    of,  her  present 
to  Captain  Cook,  266,  271. 
Oxford,  barges  at,  318;  indescrib 

ton,  259,  262,  272-275. 
St.  Chad,  201. 
St.  Hugh,  shrine  of,  in   Lincoln 

able,  322,  323. 

Cathedral,  247. 

St.  John's  School-House,  at  War 

Painted  Hall,  the,  at  Greenwich 

wick,  104. 

Hospital,  390,  391. 

St.  Mary's  Church,  at  Warwick, 

Parliament,    British,  and   Amer 

136. 

ican  sailors,  45,  46. 

St.    Mary's   Hall,   at    Coventry, 

Parr,  Dr.,  once  vicar  of  Hatton, 

533-536. 

95  ;    a   misplaced   man,  97  ;    a 

St.  Mary's  Square,  at  Lichfield, 

guest  at  Leicester's   Hospital, 

216,218. 

130. 

St.    Michael's  Church,  at  Dum 

Peacock  hotel,  Old  Boston,  259. 

fries,  328,  332-334. 

Pearce,  Mr.,  vice-consul  at  Liv 

St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  429. 

erpool,  50. 

Saracen's   Head   hotel,   Lincoln, 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  and  Holbein's 

236. 

masterpiece     in     Barber     Sur 

Scenery,  English,  146,  232. 

geons'  Hall,  537. 

Schools,      English,     long-estab 

Philadelphia  printer,  a,  wander 

lished,  104. 

ing  about  England,  13-17. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  attractiveness 

Poets'    Corner,    in    Westminster 

of  his  name,  160;  and  Anthony 

Abbey,  451-459. 

Forster,  303. 

Pope,  Alexander,  his  account  of 

Seward,  Miss,  at  Lichfield,  216. 

Stanton  Harcourt,  308  ;  trans 

Shakespeare  :  his    church,     155  ; 

lation  of  Homer,  314. 
Porter,    Mr.,   bookseller  at    Old 

his  birthplace,  157-163  ;  his  vari 
ous  guises,  164  ;  his  curse  on  the 

Boston,  265-271. 

man  who  should  stir  his  bones, 

Posie   Nansie's    inn    at    Mauch- 

165;  his  burial-place,  165-171; 

line,  336. 

family    monuments,     167;  his 

Posthumus  and  Imogen,  129. 

bust,  in  the   church   at    Strat 

Poverty,    glimpses    of     English, 

ford,   168,    169;    Miss  Bacon's 

470-524. 

theory,        175;     immeasurable 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller,  469. 

depth  of  his  plays,  175. 

Sheffield,  the  town  of  razors  and 

Raleigh,    Sir    Walter,    and    the 

smoke,  235. 

Thames  Tunnel,  420-422. 

Sherwood  Forest,  235. 

"  Red     Letter    A,"    author    of, 

Shrewsbury,   pleasant   walks  in, 

306. 

238,  note. 

Redfern's  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  at 

Southey,  Robert,  his  Life  of  Nel 

Warwick,  142,  143. 

son,  393. 

594 


INDEX 


Stanton  Harcourt,  its  hospitable 
parsonage,  305  ;  its  old  castle, 
306,  307,  313,  314;  Pope's  con 
nection  with,  308,  309,  3 14,  3 1 5  ; 
its  church,  309-312. 

Sterne,  Laurence,  crayon-por 
trait  of,  267. 

Stocks,  village,  at  Whitnash,  go. 

Stratford-on-Avon,  scenery  near, 
145;  approach  to,  153,  154; 
queer  edifices  in,  155. 

Swans,  aspect  and  movement  of, 
66. 

Swynford,  Catherine,  monument 
of,  in  Lincoln  Cathedral,  247. 

Tam  O'Shanter,  statue  of,  353. 
Taylor,  General,  portrait  of,  4. 
Temple,  the,  431. 
Tennyson,  and  English  scenery, 

Testament,  New,  consular  copy 
of,  6,  45. 

Thames,  ferry  near  Cumnor,  305  ; 
steamers  on,  412;  its  muddy 
tide,  414;  a  summer  day's  voy 
age  on,  412-435- 

Thames  lunnel,  the,  415-423. 

Thornhill,  Sir  James,  291,  390. 

Tickell,  Thomas,  his  lines  on 
Addison,  456. 

Tower  of  London,  the,  427,  428. 

Traitor's  Gate,  the,  427. 

Treeo,  John,  forlorn  epitaph  on, 
86. 

Trees,  English  and  American, 
compared,  147-149. 

Tuckerman,  H.  T.,  his  "  Month 
in  England,"  439. 

Uttoxeter,  221;  its  idle  people, 
223  ;  its  abundance  of  public 
houses,  224. 

Vagabonds,      Yankee,      abroad, 

1 1-22. 

Vandyck,  his  picture  of  Charles 

I.,  292. 
Victoria,   Queen,  a  Connecticut 

shopkeeper  goes  to  England  to 

see  her,  18-21  ;  some  American 

blood-relatives,  26. 

Walmesley,    Gilbert,   monument 
to,  in  Lichfield  Cathedral,  211. 
Wapping,  cold  and  torpid,  425. 


Warren,  Sir  Peter,  bust  of,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  444. 

Warwick,  founded  by  Cymbeline, 
103,  129;  its  castle,  105,  107; 
its  principal  street,  108,  109  ; 
military  display  at,  109;  the 
High  Street,  no;  Leicester's 
Hospital,  112-127;  the  home 
of  Posthumus  and  Imogen, 
129;  church  of  St.  Mary's, 
136-140  ;  Redfern's  Old  Curi 
osity  Shop,  142,  143. 

Warwickshire  Elm,  the  beauti 
ful,  69. 

Wasps,  attracted    by   pomatum, 

319- 

Wedding,  of  some  poor  English 
people,  522-524  ;  an  aristo 
cratic,  in  the  same  cathedral, 


Wedd 


eding,  silver,  as  a  matter  of 
conscience,  76. 

West,  Benjamin,  picture  by,  at 
Greenwich,  389. 

Westminster  Abbey,  a  Sunday 
afternoon  service  in,  440;  its 
interior,  441  ;  statues  and  tombs 
in,  444-447;  "they  do  bury 
fools  there,"  4495  Poets' 
Corner,  451-459- 

Whitefriars,  the  old  rowdy  Al- 
satia,  430. 

Whitnash,  secluded  village  of, 
88  ;  yew-tree  of  incalculable 
age  at,  89  ;  village  stocks  of, 
90  ;  change  at  work  in,  93,  94. 

Wilberforce,  William,  statue  of, 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  446, 
447' 

Wilding,  Mr.,  vice-consul  at, 
Liverpool,  51. 

Wilkins,      Sergeant,      550,    551, 

Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester,  286. 
Witham,  the  river,  255,  263. 
Women,  in  the  poorer  streets  of 

London,  479,  484;  in  an  Eng 

lish  almshouse,  499;  at  public 

dinners,  567. 
Woodstock,  282. 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  restorer 

of    St.   Mary's  Church,  War 

wick,  136. 

Yew-tree,  extraordinary  age  of, 
89. 


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